May is Mental Health Awareness month. I was surprised to learn the campaign goes back to 1949 and was started by Mental Health America (MHA).

This year’s theme, Where to Start: Mental Health in a Changing World, reminds us that dealing with life’s pressures can be overwhelming, and everyone deserves to feel supported and empowered to seek help when needed.

One of the great things MHA provides is a simple web tool to help you get started. And let’s face it, in the struggle to get care for your mental health, it’s often hardest to know where to start.

I’ve been reflecting lately on the early days of my bipolar journey as shared in the Surviving Bipolar Series. After years of suffering in silence, I finally spoke up and got help. The only problem was, the treatment my doctor provided wasn’t working, and she refused to listen to me.

Another year flew by, and things were so dark, I was ready to give up. Had my friends not stepped in at the last moment, I wouldn’t be writing this newsletter today.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. | Image made by author with Canva.

Here’s a hard truth we have to learn: No one will ever care more about your mental health than you do. Not your parents, not your spouse, not your children. No one.

No matter how much anyone loves you, they will never know everything in your head or all the pain you keep hidden.

My bipolar diagnosis came almost 30 years ago, but there are still parts of my struggle I never share. No one knows the worst monsters in my head, so it’s up to me to admit when I need help.

The same is true for you. Even if you aren’t ready to share everything, at least admit you are having a rough time. Then, if a treatment plan isn’t working, speak up for yourself.

Sometimes that means finding a new doctor or therapist. Success is possible, though, so it’s worth any effort to reach stability.

If you or someone you love is in a dark place, today is the day to get help. Start with the tool above, call your primary care physician, or reach out to a crisis hotline (call or text 988 in the US).

The first step to recovery is admitting you need help. Be brave and reach out this week to get the support you need.

2024 Change Update

Change takes many shapes, so this week I concentrated on strengthening my faith. Or, at least, that’s the excuse I’m using for having strawberry shortcake for dessert every night. It’s spring. How can you not have strawberries?

I am moving more, back to an average of 6,000+ steps per day. I’m counting that as a win.

Featured Post

Do you struggle with bipolar anger? You’re not alone. The next chapter in the Surviving Bipolar Series (below) is all about how I started to face my internal rage monster.

Scenes from My Yard

I did a bit of hypomanic shopping this week and spent too much on outdoor plants. Here are a few of my favorites.

Thank you for riding the bipolar train with me.

Until next time, keep fighting.

Scott Ninneman

Part 22: Bipolar Disorder and Anger: Learning to Fight the Monster

Illustration of an angry man sitting in a car and writing in a journal — All I could write were angry words. | Image made by author with Canva AI.

My face was so hot I expected it to burst into flames. Bipolar anger was raging within me, another trial I was learning to fight after my diagnosis.

In my journal, I filled an entire page with four-letter words and exclamation points. My fists longed to punch someone, and I imagined taking a sledgehammer to the walls and windows nearby.

What set me off? Nothing really. Bipolar disorder and anger are lifelong friends and a beast inside you have to learn to tame.

This is how anger affected me in the early days of my bipolar journey and how I learned to control it.

Surviving Bipolar is a monthly series telling the story of the early days of my journey with bipolar disorder. Read it from the beginning here.

Problems with anger as a child

As a child, I often had rage attacks. It’s just one way mental illness manifested during my childhood. Each angry episode scared me, but my friends loved to see the rage monster come out.

A tiny thing would set me off, usually an unkind word from a teacher or a cruel attack by a classmate. The irritation flipped a switch in my brain, and like Bruce Banner turning into the Incredible Hulk, I became something else.

Most of the time, I was a happy kid. I loved to smile and laugh and felt like it was my job to make everyone else do the same. I guess even then I was pursuing positivity, but I didn’t know it.

Occasionally, that cheerful little guy became an angry monster.

My arch nemesis was a boy named David. David’s life mission, at least through elementary school, was to make my life as miserable as possible.

David, my childhood enemy

“Hey Willy,” David would whisper in my direction.

For context, Willy was a nickname I carried in fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. Our teacher thought my friend Angie and I were spending too much time together, so she name us Willy and Nilly. Angie’s nickname never caught on, but I was branded as Willy until I went to another school.

Sitting quietly at my desk, I focused on the math assignment worksheet. Multiplication tables. I hated them so much.

Six times eight is 48, I said slowly in my head.

“Hey Willy,” David tried again. “You’re stupid.”

My plan was to ignore David. If I gave in, things always got worse.

Seven times eight is 56. I tried to make my voice louder inside my head.

Then a spit wad flew past my arm and bounced off the front left corner of my desk.

Great, I thought. Now he’s got a straw.

Relentless irritation triggers anger

David sat a desk away, diagonally behind me. There was nothing between us to block what I knew was coming.

Glancing up at the front of the room, our teacher was oblivious to the students in the room. She buried her nose in a romance novel, and we knew her one command was we stay quiet.

Another spit wad hit the side of my neck.

Stay calm, I told myself. He’s not worth it.

A wet ball of paper bounced off my forearm.

I turned to David.

“Knock it off,” I told him, and he smiled.

I returned to my multiplication table. Nine times eight is 72.

Another ball of paper flew over my desk. As much as David practiced shooting spit wads at his fellow students, he was still a terrible shot.

In the next few minutes, three more wads of paper ricocheted off of me or my desk. With each attack, I felt my anger monster stirring within me, but I knew letting him out would have consequences. I hated being in trouble, so I fought to keep myself at peace.

Then a squishy, wet blob of paper hit my ear with such precision that it stayed there.

Illustration of a boy with a big smile sitting at a desk — David's greatest joy came from torturing me. | Image made by author with Canva AI.

Flying into rage

Flip. The switch was on. I was no longer me but the beast that lived in me.

“I hate you!” I screamed, jumping up from my chair, pulling the hunk of paper from my ear and throwing it at David’s face.

I grabbed the straw from his mouth and tried my best to rip it apart. When that didn’t work, I crumpled it into a ball and threw it at David.

“You’re such a baby,” David taunted me, only making my anger burn hotter. I picked up the pencil off his desk and broke it in half. Then I broke each piece in half again, throwing all four at him.

David laughed, and that was more fuel for my fire. I snatched the sheet of paper with the multiplication table David should have been working on and tore the paper to shreds, tossing them in the air.

With nothing else on his desk, I went for David. My goal was to wrap my hands around his stupid neck, but just then, a hand caught my shoulder and spun me around.

“What do you think you are doing?” My teacher’s face was as red as my own. “We do not act this way,” she scolded me. “Now, apologize to David.”

“He started it,” I tried to defend myself, but by then there was no proof of what David had done.

“I don’t care,” my teacher said, turning me back to face David. “Now apologize.”

David smiled like the Cheshire Cat, and I wanted to rip his lips off his face.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, looking at the floor.

“To the corner,” my teacher order, and I stomped my feet with every step until I reached the punishment chair in the front corner of the classroom. I sat down hard on the plastic chair and kicked the wall in front of me.

“Would you rather go to the principal’s office?” my teacher asked, but of course I didn’t. It was 1981, and spanking was still allowed in my elementary school.

The last thing I wanted was that wooden paddle smacking my rear end. So I crossed my arms and huffed in anger, but forced myself not to move again.

Bipolar disorder and anger as an adult

Bouts of anger continued throughout my school years. I learned to handle most of my irritations, but the monster still broke free now and then.

Each time, I swore to myself it would never happen again. As the beast rampaged, destroying pencils and paper, throwing books, and kicking walls, I felt like a helpless spectator watching a movie. I was the main character, but someone else was controlling my actions.

Some friends still laughed at the angry outbursts, but others were afraid of me. I hated how I made the scared ones feel, like it was a failure on my part as a human being. I couldn’t even control the way I acted, no matter how hard I tried.

In my teen years, my family saw the worst of my rage monster. After eight hours of controlling myself in school and another four hours at my retail job, I was too tired to control the beast at home. My heart ached every time I blew up at my mom or dad, but the words always felt like someone else’s.

I was coping with bipolar disorder and anger, though I didn’t know that until I was 23. Even after my diagnosis, it would be another few years before I fully understood bipolar anger and how to control it.

Raging over little things

Jumping forward to 1995, rage episodes were happening more often. Every few weeks, I had another medication change, either an increase in dosage or a switch to a new prescription.

The constant chemical changes in my brain created such a sensitive trigger that even the sound of my kittens scratching in the litter box could make my blood boil.

The page in my journal covered with curse words was all because two of my friends were running late and I needed a ride to my therapy appointment. It wasn’t a big deal, and they were only five minutes late when the rage monster screamed inside me, but that was beside the point.

Instead of erupting in anger, I gave my friends the silent treatment and answered their questions with cold, clipped sentences. Yeah, I know, really mature, but it was better than exploding.

Finding the trigger

Bipolar disorder and anger episodes often have a trigger. In the back seat of the car, as my friend Margaret drove us to Chattanooga, I scribbled more expletives in my journal. I knew my anger was unreasonable, but the fire inside refused to be quenched.

Why? I kept writing in my journal, and then in a violent flash, it all made sense.

My therapist, Dr. Burt, and I were working through some of my memories of childhood abuse. I desperately wanted to believe the memories weren’t real, but the more I sat with each one, the stronger the memory.

The irritation I directed toward my friends was tied to the anger I felt about the events I suffered as a child. The connection? I’m still not sure, but something on that late spring afternoon made my mind return to those memories. My fear of the memories made the beast inside come out to play.

It takes a lot of time and effort to sort out your triggers when grappling with bipolar disorder and anger. Looking back at the past few decades, I still can’t make sense of some triggers, but I know there were connections. When I learned to identify the places, activities, and sometimes people who trigger my anger cycles, I was better able to avoid them.

Other triggers are easier to see. It may be a rude customer, an unkind friend, or a pet waking me up in the middle of the night. Disruptions to my schedule and people not following through with their promises also set me off, so I’ve learned which friends I can turn to and ignore the rest.

Illustration of a man meditating near a stream — Take time for self care. | Image made by author with Canva AI.

Living with bipolar anger today

I would love to write here about how mastered my bipolar disorder and anger. I wish I could say I’ve never had an episode since, but that would be a lie.

Most days, I’m better at keeping things under control, but sometimes, the monster breaks free no matter what I do.

For me, the worst times come when I’m sleeping too little or doing too much. Working 6-7 days a week during tax season keeps the anger close to the surface. The danger is so strong that I wonder how many more tax seasons I’ll be able to work. The exhaustion is not worth the damage it does to my mental health.

My angry beast will also show up when I’m not taking care of myself. If I go days with sleeping too little, skipping exercise, or eating junk food, the skipped self care rouses the monster.

Bipolar disorder and anger are a tough pair to tackle, but success is possible. Identify your triggers and keep working to stay calm, and it is much easier.

Until next time, keep fighting.

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Additional Reading:

8 Helpful Phrases: What to Say to Someone With Depression by Scott Ninneman
Bipolar Is a Four Letter Word by Betty Van Cleve
For Years It’s Been Hard by Matthew Gonzalez
How Do You Sleep At Night? by Heather Bessinger
How To Let Your Painful Past Fall Away From You by Scott Ninneman
It’s Time to Be Open About the Hidden Shame of Schizophrenia by Leon Macfayden
May 2024 is Mental Health Awareness Month by Nicole Dake
The Holy Grail Between Acceptance and Resistance by Karsten Ramser
The Love My Parents Have in Their 80s by Scott Ninneman
They’re Not My Crazy Pills by Kimberly
Unlikely Ally by Julio Angel Rivera
You Never Know What You Can Do Until You Try by Scott Ninneman
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