Coming Out at Book Club

Nine middle-aged women, one heavy book, and my big reveal

It’s one thing to talk about being bipolar online, to a group of several thousand supportive (but usually quiet) readers.

It’s quite another to announce it during an in-person book club — to nine middle-aged women (almost all of whom I don’t know particularly well).

For book club this month, we read Hidden Valley Road: Inside the Mind of an American Family, which chronicles the extraordinary story of the Galvin family. In the 1960s and '70s, Mimi and Don Galvin raised twelve children, ten of them boys. Six of their sons would eventually be diagnosed with schizophrenia.

It’s a fascinating read, and the woman who picked it for us is a doctor. So the discussion was….interesting.

One of the most gripping elements of the book is its exploration of schizophrenia's origins through the lens of nature versus nurture. Current research suggests that while genetic predisposition plays a significant role, the disease often emerges after specific triggering events.

Since bipolar disorder follows a similar pattern of genetic and environmental factors, I grew increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation unfolded. Especially when some of the group members seemed fixated on figuring out the “nurture” part of the Galvin puzzle…while pretty much ignoring the “nature” part.

Several women compared the household to "Lord of the Flies," criticizing the environment the children grew up in. Admittedly, it was a chaotic household, but it seemed like people were starting to really lean into blaming the parents.

I was also deeply uncomfortable with some of the discussion about psych meds, particularly when someone said it seems like some of the people believe the side effects of meds might be worse than the symptoms of schizophrenia.

I had the feeling I was the only person in the room who had personal experience with psych meds, so I felt like I should say something about how folks who say the side effects are worse than the disease have probably never dealt with an unmedicated mental illness. 

But I couldn’t say anything valid without “coming out” as bipolar.

I debated in my head for a few minutes. Was this a safe space for me to talk about it?

I took stock of the group around me.

There was one woman in the room who I genuinely consider a friend. A new friend, but we’ve said some real things to each other, and I really like her.

There are 2-3 other women who are in the early transitioning-from-an-acquaintance-to-a-friend stage.

The discussion continued. I disagreed with a lot of what people were saying.

So I took a deep break and spoke up. I told them I was bipolar. 

I spoke about why it was important not to judge family situations or the “nurture” part of someone’s life that may have led to their mental illness. Because that kind of speculation isn’t helpful, and it can be hurtful.

"Look, even if parents do things 'perfectly' — whatever that means — their child can still become mentally ill."

I was surprised that it didn’t feel like a bomb had gone off in the room. It was more like, “Huh, well, that’s a data point, Beth has bipolar, let’s keep chatting!” which was actually fine by me.

A few minutes later when we circled back around to psych meds, I could speak with authority, and from my lived experience. When electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) was mentioned, I told them about the side effects of it, and the situations where it might be a helpful treatment.

And there were even a few times when people asked me direct questions (although admittedly not many — I’m continually astounded by how few questions people ask me when they find out about my diagnosis). 

After another 30 minutes, the discussion started to wind down, and my friend put on her coat and started saying her goodbyes. I wanted to talk to her before she left, so I scurried to get my purse and walked out the door with her.

As we were leaving, I asked her, “Did I just make that awkward?” because I am still not confident in talking to people about bipolar. And she said, “Absolutely not!” 

We stood by our cars for a second, and I confessed to her that when I tell people for the first time that I’m bipolar, my number one fear is that they’re not going to want to be friends with me anymore.

And bless her freaking heart, she said “Oh my god, no!” and then told me she has ADD and has other family members who have mental illnesses and she has ZERO judgment about any of it. 

I was so relieved and grateful, I spontaneously hugged her.

I asked her, “So you don’t think it was weird that I told the group?”

“Absolutely not. I thought it was brave.”

And by the time we each got in our cars and drove away into the cold November night, I felt closer to her than I had before — like there was now space to have an even deeper friendship. 

So far, this “coming out” story seems to have gone well. And yes, I have a wicked vulnerability hangover. But that’s just how it’s going to be for a little while, until I get comfortable talking to people about it. And until I get over my “They’re automatically going to avoid me, because they think bipolar is ‘scary’” fears.

Will I be able to get closer to any of the other women in the group? Will this kick off good conversations and invite them to be more vulnerable, too? Also yet to be seen.

But I figure, what the hell. If they don’t know me, they can’t love me, right? And isn’t that what we all want — more love, more acceptance, more real conversations? I know I do.

And that’s all great fodder for book club, if you ask me. At least, it is for the kind of book clubs I want to be in.

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash