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.

Last Saturday I celebrated 13 years of sobriety. Whodathot? Thirteen years. It sounds strange coming out of my mouth. Thirteen years.

I don’t miss alcohol or drugs. I don’t even think about alcohol or drugs anymore. I don’t miss the taste. I don’t miss cooking without it. And I definitely don’t miss the hangovers. Just conjuring up the memory of a hangover is enough to keep me sober.

I drank a lot. I drank wine, beer, vodka gimlets, Long Island iced teas and anything with a little paper umbrella in it. I loved to drink. I even trained my dog to jump up and grab a lime from my lime tree when I popped open a Corona. She was a great dog – the best drinking buddy ever. If only she had been able to drive…

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.

How long will I be like this? How long will this last? Maybe it will always be like this.

Thank God.

I went to see my nurse practitioner yesterday for my three-month check-up. She asked the usual: “So, how are you doing?”

“I’m great,” I said. “I have never been this good for so long. I keep waiting for it to end.”

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. But seriously, how long will I be like this? How long will this last?

I have never been this stable for so long. Life is good. I have patience and I have never been accused of being patient. I have contentment and serenity and all that goofy stuff they talk about in those self-help books. My nightly prayer before I go to sleep is one “Thank you God…” after another.

How in the hell did this happen?

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.

Bipolar is not funny. I know. I have Bipolar II. But sometimes, you just gotta lighten up and laugh at…bipolar disorder. People have gotten seriously ticked off at me for occasionally taking pot shots at bipolar disorder. But THIS is funny. It ran in The Onion 10 years ago and it still makes me chuckle…

NEW HAVEN, CT –In a diagnosis that helps explain the confusing and contradictory aspects of the cosmos that have baffled philosophers, theologians, and other students of the human condition  for millennia, God, creator of the universe and longtime deity to billions of followers, was found Monday to suffer from bipolar disorder.

Rev. Dr. J. Henry Jurgens, a practicing psychiatrist and doctor of divinity at Yale University Divinity School, announced the historic diagnosis at a press conference.

“I always knew there had to be some explanation,” Jurgens said.  “And, after several years of patient research and long sessions with God Almighty through the intercessionary medium of prayer, I was able to pinpoint the specific nature of His problem.”