Every human being deserves autonomy. Every single one. When an individual's autonomy is challenged or taken away, you begin to violently strip away their dignity, and once that is thinned it becomes easier and easier to violate them. I would argue that in some, if not many ways, every protected class has dealt with this reality. And what are you supposed to do? Beg for your autonomy back? Demand that the powers that be give you your autonomy because it is yours? This isn't how reality seems to work.

The stripping of an individual's autonomy and the eroding of their dignity leaves a space for discrimination to wreck havoc on their lives. While, at this present time the details of the how's and what's of my experience with discrimination really cannot be divulged, it is important that now I tell you of its impact.

I remember learning of the definition of discrimination in school with it juxtaposed next to prejudice. Prejudice is a framing of thought, it is a mindful stance. Discrimination is action that is fueled by prejudice. That's as far as I thought it would go in my world. After all, I knew I was white, so racial discrimination was out. Women's lib had happened, and for the most part women are deemed "equal" to men [please note my sarcasm to the naiveté of my youth - women's equality in this country is an illusion at best. Anyway...]. I was born in a Christian home, and even though I am a Jew, the impact of anti-Semitism on my life is different than for those who were born Jewish and have generations of Judaism behind them. I do not read as Jewish, I don't "look" Jewish and I don't have a Jewish sounding last name - whatever that actually means. I also do not "look" gay, if you saw me on the street the likelihood that your gaydar flashers would go off, unless I was decked out in rainbows, is fairly low. Regardless, I have always been prepared to bare the brunt of sexism, homophobia, and anti-Semitism if it happened into my life. After all, by choice or by birth I am a Jewish, Gay, Woman. My health is never something I thought I would have to protect.

My mental illness is part of my identity. Only a part. When I am told that I shouldn't think about it so much, or some other rambling that it is insignificant I think about my nightly routine. Every night I take a mood stabilizer and an anti-depressant. Every fucking night. I put the pills in my hand and I throw them back. I am grateful for them, because they allow me to be functional, vertical, and more in control with them than without them. But the point here is that I am not allowed to forget my mental illness. If I forget a dose I go into painful and very real withdrawals. Its like I have the worst hangover, and the only thing that will make them go away is my fix, my meds. And every month when I shell out money I don't always have for them, I am again reminded about my mental illness. I know I have bipolar disorder. It isn't a crutch or a cross I bear, it is my reality.

Here's the thing, I always felt that my mental illness was my personal reality, something that isn't to be touched. And yet, I disclose that I have it. I disclose this very personal part of me for understanding. I tell my friends because I know they care, and because I want to. I get to make that choice because it is MY mental health. I tell people I work with, employers, because I want them to know why when I say I am sick and I need to miss work it isn't about my playing hooky or being lazy. When I would tell professors I did so, so these people would get why I would ask for an extension, or patience if I wear sunglasses in class, or if I seem without "affect". I disclose to the people intricately involved in my life. I am transparent and open, because it is something that I value. But, here's the kicker, disclosing can kick you in the ass. And because I knew this I have always chosen to never, ever have my mental health status documented as a disability at either institution where I was a student - but more on that another day.

I was very blessed as an undergraduate student to work with faculty and employers that were patient with me. For them I will always be grateful. These individuals made some of the hardest times in my life bearable, they treated me with dignity and integrity. They saw value in me when the sickness was so thick that I couldn't breathe.

This is not how the world really is though. So let's talk about discrimination. I am apparently part of a protected class as an individual with a mental illness. I didn't learn this until after several months after that point of discrimination.

Discrimination is more than a word or bullet point. It is more than an idea to help us understand the intricacies of the world or how people have been wronged. Discrimination is invasive. It is pervasive. Once you experience discrimination it enters every part of your life. It enters your livelihood, your bank account, your credit cards, your credit scores, your physical health, your mental health, your work, your relationships, your confidence, the very fabric of your being. You doubt yourself. It feels like your whole world has been poisoned. And even when you stand up for yourself, even when you call it out, the pain doesn't go away. What happened is still there. It is still in your bones.

For the purposes of education, let me explain how deeply this discrimination has effected my health. Part of my bipolar disorder is knowing that in times of mania, or a general bipolar disorder episode, that my reality may be skewed, that I understand things in ways that are not accurate to reality. I get paranoid. I am fortunately not someone who has hallucinations, but I have experienced delusions. I am triggered by immense stress that is not expected. [School was an expected stress].

After I realized it was happening fully loaded, the discrimination, I spun out. I couldn't see straight, and I slowly dropped away. I broke a promise I made to myself before I entered the mikvah at my conversion, and started self harming. When I made that promise to myself at my mikvah, in front of the mirror stark naked after showering and before I would be reborn as a Jew there was something I did not understand. Even as I was looking at my scars from years of self mutilation and pain, I still didn’t get it. When I would find my self cutting again I wasn’t breaking a promise to myself. Rather I was sick, just like when you have a fever or a headache. Like so many aspects of mental illness, we are taught shame, and shame I felt when I was in the midst of another episode. It took the sting of reality away for a little bit. Unfortunately the scars remain to tell the story of those days. I remember coming home and sitting on the floor with my favorite blade (we cutters have one, and probably always will) and releasing some of the pressure. Over and over. I did not want to kill my self, but I wanted to release the pressure, I wanted the pain and the blood to ground me in some way. I remind myself that I am not floating around somewhere looking down at the havoc. I felt my autonomy was stolen from me. It was ripped away violently like an unwanted band aid.

In the coming months I couldn't sleep. I soon became manic so much so that I needed anti-psychotics to be brought down. I should have been in the hospital, but I had health care providers who knew what was going on. They understood the impact the discrimination was having on my life. They understood and fostered my autonomy when I said that a hospitalization would only serve as more ammunition to make this discrimination stuff worse. So they let me go home to my bed with enough chemical support to put out a team of horses. I was fortunate to have a friend I could call and ask that if these meds didn't bring me down if she would drive me to a hospital. Without judgment, she was there. Luckily the meds knocked me out, and brought me vertical again.

I ended up gaining 30 some pounds, something I didn't really see until I saw pictures of myself at my MA graduation. Even calling on the discrimination formally has been taxing. In all the same ways, except now, away from the scene I have nightmares. I have panic attacks that it will happen again. I have shame that somehow I could have avoided this. That I search my brain and soul for fault, because that is what discrimination does to you. It robs you. So maybe in telling you this you begin to get it. I was discriminated based on my mental illness. And it affected every part of me. My situation isn't unique, it happens all the time. It happens based on sexuality, on race, on gender, on ethnicity, on religion, on nationality, on gender, on any disability, on class, and the list goes on. It happens, and it erodes you.

Here's the thing about discrimination, those who do it try to justify it. They try to find a way for their actions to make sense. They victim blame. And they victim blame some more.

So how did this start? It started when those in my life decided they understood more about my mental illness than I did, and in doing so, they robbed me of my autonomy. And somewhere in that mix of ego and arrogance there was fear. They are human. They made a mistake. But that does not make it okay.

What is the bigger phenomenon here? I can tell you about mental health because that is what I am versed in. When we, those with mental illness, are told you get it, without asking questions, assuming you know you are part of the problem. When you assume you understand what a bad day is or a good day is or an impulse purchase or a drink is for us, you are part of the problem. When you tell us how we feel, you are part of the problem. When you try or do invalidate our experience you are part of the problem. These microaggressions that are directed to those who are living with mental illness that somehow challenges how we know ourselves and our autonomy directly effect how and when discrimination happens. A discourse forms that makes it okay to question an individual's understanding of themselves and their health. No matter the mental illness or how sick a person is, their autonomy is crucial to their dignity. So, check yourself. Seriously. Especially if you legitimately give a shit.

That shame we feel when we get sick, when we relapse, when we have an episode silences us. We are silenced by that shame. So when we are discriminated against, and subsequently doubt our worth, value, and hard work, we don’t call attention to it. We silence that voice that tells us that we have been wronged. Shame is controlling. Discrimination breeds shame in the victim, and when it is not called out it fosters confidence in the perpetrator.

As I write this I find myself immeasurably angry. I am angry that I was authentic. I am angry that I allowed myself to be vulnerable and honest. I am angry that my life has been turned upside down. I am angry that this discrimination has infected my life so much, like an aggressive cancer. But I also recognize that my anger, will it can be transformative, it is not healthy. I think to the people who hurt me, and while it is easy to say that they just don’t like themselves, that they were projecting on to me, it isn’t the answer. I could say that they are victims of ignorance. But here’s the deal, these people are lauded for being inclusive, for being allies to other protected classes. They have people in their lives that have mental illnesses. And for them they have taken their autonomy, mistaking it for love and compassion, a higher level of caring. They find confidence and esteem in that theft of autonomy. I have to argue that this willful ignorance robs and invalidates the solidarity they perceive that they have with other protected classes. They have abused their privilege to erode the life of another. Too often I think when we label ourselves as advocates and allies we permit ourselves to be without guilt when we hold prejudice for another protected class. I know that I have done it, it would be a lie to say that because I am part of a protected class that I can’t and don’t hold prejudice, that I am not capable of discrimination. But I am. I am doing that which I would expect of myself when that prejudice becomes discrimination. I am calling it out. Because it will happen again. And the next person it happens to may be too crippled by shame, and to afraid to speak up. So this is for them.