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.

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.

Today, across the world of psychiatry, pharmacology and the water cooler, yesterday’s New York Times Opinion piece, In Defense of Antidepressants, will be discussed, debated, praised and torn to shreds. Which is why I would like to take a different tack and offer my take on the Times’ recent coverage of mental illness.

For the last few years the Times has published a stunning array of mental health related articles. The articles do not pander to that little slice of celebrity voyeurism we all secretly indulge. And they are devoid of fear-mongering sensationalism that follows every shooting-spree committed by a gunman “with a history of mental illness.”

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.

Where is Patrick Kennedy when we need him?!

Recently, the folks drafting rules for the 9/11 Compensation Fund announced that the $2.8 billion fund created by Congress last year will not cover mental health problems caused by 9/11.

The Special Master notes that as in the Fund’s first iteration, the statute limits eligible injuries to those consisting of ‘‘physical harm.’’ Accordingly, as in the Fund’s first iteration, the statutory language does not permit the Fund to cover individuals with only mental and emotional injuries, even if the mental and emotional injuries are covered by the WTC Health Program.

Apparently, the fund’s newly-appointed special master, Sheila Birnbaum, hasn’t heard about the Paul Wellstone and Pete Domenici Mental Health Parity and Addiction Equity Act of 2008 (MHPAEA). I understand that the statute governing the 9/11 Compensation fund governs her duties to disburse the money to deserving survivors.

However, couldn’t Birnbaum take a stand and argue that because the brain is a part of the human body – ergo “PHYSICAL” – that “mental and emotional” injuries should be covered – especially since the MHPAEA is now the law of the land? In the spirit of parity don’t you think the government ITSELF should voluntarily commit to mental health parity when it comes to using tax dollars to provide ANY KIND OF HEALTH CARE!

Ever had one of those moments where you realize you are not as enlightened as you thought you were?

I had one Sunday morning, reading a front page story in The New York Times, Need Therapy? A good man is hard to find. Seems the number  of male therapists is  dwindling. Only 10 percent of the members of the American Counseling Association are men, down from 30 percent in 1982. “Some college psychology programs cannot even attract male applicants, much less students,” according to the article.

“The result, many therapists argue, is that the profession is at risk of losing its appeal for a large group of sufferers – most of them men – who would like to receive therapy but prefer to start with a male therapist.”

The bitchy little feminist in me says, “na-na-na-na-boo-boo. Now you know what it’s like for us to go to male gynecologists!” But in this battle, that kind of thinking is fatal. Of the four people I have known who committed suicide in the last five years, all were men.

Audrey Gruss has no problem talking about her mother’s depression — even to a large audience in a ballroom at an elegant hotel in Palm Beach, where everything and everyone looks so refined and polished. She speaks candidly – not as a victim but as a daughter. It is her way of taking at swipe at the stigma that still stifles families who need help.

“Hope is a very important word. It is also my mother’s name,”  Audrey told a crowd at a fund-raising luncheon at The Breaker’s Hotel last Friday. Thirty five years ago Audrey’s’ mother had a “nervous breakdown.” She went away to a hospital. The doctors told the family very little about their mother’s condition.

“That was an era when cancer was thought to be contagious,” she said. “Patients weren’t told very much.”

Over the years her mother tried medications. “At certain time she was balanced but not totally.” Five years ago, Audrey’s mother died. About the same time Audrey became interested in the work of Dr. Jaak Panksepp, an Estonian born psychologist and neuroscientist who coined the term “affective neuroscience” – the study of the neural mechanisms of emotion.

To anyone who has depression, affective neuroscience is common sense. Of course emotions are related to activity in our brains. We might not be able to tell you how emotions affect our hypothalamus,  cingulate cortex and hippocampi but we know there is something going on up there and it is not good.

My dog’s name is Dog.

He came with the name and it seems to be working for him. He is a mutt, about 40 pounds, orange with a little white on his chest and different color toenails. One ear sticks straight out, like Yoda, and the other flops over.

Dog is my best friend. I have human friends but I am not as comfortable with them as I am with Dog. I am not a hermit or wallflower. I am a good listener and friend. I am great at parties – telling stories and listening. People say I am a nice person and funny. For the most part, with the exception of a couple of people, I would rather be alone with Dog than with you. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s true.