Once again I’m the first and only person writing about a topic no other mental health writer or agency has tackled before: what it’s like in bereavement for a person diagnosed with bipolar, schizophrenia, or another emotional illness.

My father has been gone over two years. An aunt died over a year ago. After my father died I started to have conversations with him. He appeared to me in dreams.

The older you get there will be different kinds of losses–of  the people you love, of friends that no longer suit you, of dreams that go unfulfilled.

As the years roll by, our accreted sorrows can engulf us even though we’re doing well and able to function. Our grief as we get older can become unbearable not just in mourning our loved ones. Our pain over not getting what we wanted in life can also consume us.

I haven’t yet had a boyfriend come into my life or a book contract for my second book.

One, just know that you are not alone.

There’s hope that you can get what you want even though it might take longer or you might have to go about it differently in your method for achieving something. It took me 13 years from start to end to publish Left of the Dial.

Two, just understand that you shouldn’t take other people’s bull crap.

They have no idea–most likely they have no compassion because they’re in this world for self-gain so don’t value kindness.

Only I understand what it’s like to have a mental illness. I identify as a person diagnosed with schizophrenia.

I’m 53, and I’ve had to survive by my wits and grit all these years in recovery. I decided long ago that I wanted to act as a cheerleader for others with mental illnesses to give them the hope, support, and encouragement that has been often lacking.

With the “everyone can recover” mentality what gets lost in the message is that even though you’re in recovery your life can still be hard.

A therapist once told me: “Your pain can be greater because you’re aware that you’re different.”

So-called normal people just don’t get it about what it’s like to live with a mental illness. They can’t possibly truly understand.

You’re left to yourself to make your way in the world. No one asks you how you’re doing. No one calls you on the telephone to brighten your day.

To add to this the feeling of grief you have over a loss can threaten to overwhelm you, to consume your waking thoughts, to settle on your chest like a weight, to make you lose hope.

Grief and its twin rejection can seem like immutable forces that will keep us on the sidelines of life.

My analogy is that there’s not a glass ceiling for us, there’s a glass wall separating us from others. We can see the outside world and want to be a part of it yet there’s a glass wall separating us from that world.

There’s a counter-intuitive solution to combat sliding into permanent despair. I can’t take credit for this strategy. It was my own mother who told me:

“Love life. That’s the only one you have. You have to live your life.”

Then my mother said:

“It’s about getting up every day and getting your job done.”

Each of us is doing the best we can with what we were given.

One some days our job will be simply to get out of bed. On other days our job might be to go to a coffeehouse and buy a hot chocolate.

I”ll end here with this:

I understand what it’s like to be in mourning. I understand what it’s like to have ongoing setbacks.