There are some truly annoying people in the world. Among the biggest jerks are those who refuse to believe that mental illnesses are real. I know one of these folks. He’s a control freak. He’s right. Always right. It’s his way or the highway. There is no telling him – or even suggesting to him – anything. I think the reason I find him so annoying is that is used to be a lot like him. A lot.

Then I fell into a deep depression. One of the few – maybe the only thing about hitting bottom – is that it gives you an open mind. You can no longer hang onto your humongous ego. The harder you try, the more it hurts. As you are holding on with a death grip, you become even more annoying and controlling. You’re not just right about everything, you win every argument and then spike your opponent’s opinion in the end zone while doing a little happy dance.

I think the people who set the prices for my medications are the same folks who decided Michael Vick should be paid $100 million for playing football.

I took a look at the actual price of my antidepressants and mood stabilizer yesterday and about passed out. Over $1,000 for a  3-month supply of my medications. You’re probably wondering how that amount of money could have slipped by a coupon-clipping, single-mom with a kid in college. Well, I am one of the most blessed people on the planet. I have medical insurance. Really good medical insurance with prescription drug coverage (God bless my employer).

I have this amazing prescription program for maintenance drugs – everything from birth control pills to Lipitor and, yes, antidepressants, anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers. I get a 3-month supply of generics for $30 and brand-name drugs for $60. Doesn’t matter which drug. They are all $30 for 3-months of generics and $60 for 3 months of brand name.

I know. It is an obscenely good deal and I am blessed – truly blessed – to have this benefit. I will be the first to tell you that until the other day, when I looked at the actual receipt, I took this benefit for granted. I’ve been getting this deal for so long that I just open the package when it comes in the mail and toss the paperwork in a folder in my files.

My mother was not a particularly happy person. She worked very, very hard. She was a devoted mother, dutiful wife and she fulfilled her responsibilities in a state of resignation.

I am not a doctor but I believe she suffered from dysthymia – chronic, low-grade depression. Just before she died, during one of our many conversations in her room at hospice she said something that guides my life: “I just wanted for you kids to be happy.”

Happy.

I thought about this yesterday after my conversation with a woman who has been verbally abused by her husband for years. She is not happy. She has been so unhappy for so long that she has come to believe that happiness is not important.  Happiness is not a goal for her. She values discipline, commitment, hard work, responsibility and respect above happiness.

“I don’t believe in my heart that happiness is necessary,” she said.

Recovered alcoholics have two birthdays. Our belly-button birthday – the day we took our first breath – and our sober birthday – the day we took our last drink. We get presents for both.

I’m telling you this not because my sober birthday is coming up – August 27 is 13 years without a drink – but because we live a life divided. Our sobriety has given us a new life but it comes with price. Secrecy. Anonymity. I am speaking about the life we lead among our clan of fellow recovered alcoholics.

We have sayings – “Keep coming back it works if you work it” – and we have tokens of devotion – colored poker chips to denote lengths of sobriety. We have clubhouses and private meetings. But there are no dues for membership.

I am not knocking any of this. I love my sober life. I am telling you this because this is not always an easy way to live. Especially if you are a dual-diagnosed recovered alcoholic. For many of us, we have spent much of our lives either denying we had a problem, convincing ourselves that we could handle it, ignoring all of it and covering our tracks.

I had a hard time taking off my cape, cuffs and boots. I believed I was Wonder Woman and I was going to pull myself up by my bootstraps and out of this depression, dammit. I didn’t need no stinkin’ help.  But things got worse. I stopped eating. I couldn’t work. I slept and slept and slept or struggled with insomnia. My thoughts raced. I looked like hell. But dammit, I was going to lick this.

Then one day I was sitting with some girlfriends who insisted that I do something. This was getting serious, they said. You need to see a doctor and get on some antidepressants. No freakin’ way. I’m not going to take drugs, I told them. Not me.  Nuh-uh.

Then one of the girls – a woman who is fabulously successful, brilliant, funny and whom I admire immensely – said something that I will never forget: “Hey, I’m always on either hormones or antidepressants.” I had no idea. She said it like it was no big deal – like taking antidepressants was no bigger deal than taking Lipitor for high cholesterol.

I have often thought about running for office. Don’t laugh. I mean it.

As a journalist I have spent over three decades seeking and listening to all sides of a story. I am trained to be objective and fair. I know how to investigate, challenge and ask questions and I am not afraid to do it. I don’t suck up to anyone and I am not affiliated with any political party. I clean my own house and pull my weeds and do not have any undocumented workers on the payroll. I can handle deadlines and a chain-saw. I know how to live paycheck to paycheck.

It is not money or a skeleton in the closet that keeps me from running. It is my mental illnesses: alcoholism and hypomania.  I am not ashamed of being an alcoholic or  having a bipolar disorder. Actually, I think my illnesses would make me a better politician. Hitting bottom leaves you with genuine humility and no one works harder or thinks outside the box – waaaay outside the box – more than us folks with bipolar disorder. They are illnesses – just like any other illnesses, right?

Wrong.

My brain and body aren’t listening to each other. I am 52-years-old but my brain still thinks I’m 21. Sometimes it thinks I’m still a kid. I’m in good shape but my body is decades ahead of my brain. For me, 50 is the new 10.

Throw a healthy dose of mania on this communication breakdown and you have some very, very sore muscles, pulled ligaments and swollen joints. I have no off-switch and I don’t know if I want one. The louder my brain shouts and less my body listens.

We are not alone…at least when it comes to stigmatizing depression.

TWO in five people in Ireland would not want to know if a loved one was experiencing depression and almost a quarter of people still think depression is a “state of mind” rather than an illness, according to the 2011 Mental Health Barometer, commissioned by the pharmaceutical firm Lundbeck (developer of Lexapro). The report, released this week, has assessed Irish peoples’ attitudes towards depression, anxiety and mental health as well as the stigma since 2006.

I don’t know what the findings would be in the United States but it would not surprise me if the numbers were the same. What I find intriguing is the question: Would you want to know if a loved one was experiencing depression? I have read a lot of studies on stigma and depression but I have never heard that particular question posed in a study.

Let me just start by saying I was not a touchy-feely, self-help-book kind of girl. I was more of a You-want-a-piece-of-me? kind of gal. Comes with the profession – journalism – and the more time you spend in a newsroom, the more refined your sass. So, when I came out of my last major depression and my therapist suggested I do some “Inner Child” work I rolled my eyes, thanked God for our  confidentiality agreement. No one would find out about my “Inner Child.”

It seemed really silly at first. REALLY silly. I drew pictures, wrote letters with my left hand from my “Inner Child,” went through boxes of old picture and visualized my “Inner Child.” I have very few memories of my childhood. But after a couple of months of working with my “Inner Child” weird stuff started happening. Memories struck like lightening – totally out of the blue. I could suddenly recall the tile and and door knob at the swimming pool. I could see myself as a 6-year-old with long pig-tails, ridiculously short bangs and my favorite red check dress with the black velvet ribbon around the waist. My sister helped me remember the library with the creepy stuffed bald eagle.

So, I was at church with this friend and when it came time to pass the basket. She had left her wallet in the car and didn’t have any money to put in the basket. She leaned over and whispered that she was embarrassed and worried about what people would think. I got all self-righteous and told her she shouldn’t be concerned about what other people think and that God knew her wallet was in the car and that was all that mattered. She could square up with God later.

A week later, I’m at church with the same friend and before the service started I showed her my new shoes – a brand spanking new pair of Ferragamo pumps that I found at Goodwill for $8.99. (I kid you not. $8.99. Clearly, the biggest Goodwill score in the history of Goodwill shopping.) She shook her head.

To prove it I showed her the bottom of the shoe, where the good folks at Goodwill had written the price with a big fat Sharpie on the sole: $8.99. She leaned over and smirked, “You know when you go up for Communion and kneel down everyone in church is going to know you got those shoes at Goodwill.”