The Jewish World Still Stigmatizes People Like Me

I sat on the salmon-colored exam table, staring at the light green walls. My leg shook, causing me to repeatedly kick the crinkly white paper beneath me. My heart thumped uncontrollably. My thoughts raced from one fractured idea to the next. I had not slept in over a week.

Eventually, my racing thoughts ceased, and my heart slowed. I dove into the abyss and finally slept.

Sitting in that exam room, I was propelled by a swarm of angry bees that someone had unleashed inside me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

The urgent-care doctor offered a beta-blocker to slow my heart and lower my blood pressure. She indicated that my current antidepressant might be the cause of my current state and suggested I follow up with the prescribing doctor.

For years, my general practitioner prescribed a series of antidepressants that had little effect on my high-pitched anxiety and debilitating depression. It was a frustrating cycle. Finally, my wife insisted that I see a psychiatrist. The first new medication we tried was the one that landed me in urgent care.

The follow-up conversation after the urgent care visit served as a lesson about how antidepressants can induce mania in patients with Bipolar Disorder. I immediately began taking a mood stabilizer.

I struggled with the diagnosis— despite knowing in my heart it was accurate. It explained the times I spent too much, like when I rushed to the art supply store to purchase brushes, canvases, paint, chalk, and scrapbooking supplies. It revealed why I had various journals filled with indecipherable handwriting interspersed with perfectly legible entries. It explained my big ideas for home projects I never finished, like when I started painting the interior walls of our new home, leaving the place in disarray and my wife to clean up after me.

It described periods of heightened moods, what I thought was “eccentricity,” “and an inflated sense of what I could achieve,” contrasted with periods where I felt unworthy of living. In graduate school, I’d spend weeks hyper-focused on a project without sleeping or eating, only to spend the next period of time unable to attend class. I had periods of euphoria, clarity, and creativity throughout my career—times when I could quickly write entire manuscripts in a few short weeks. Then I’d crash. The color would drain from the world, and the all-encompassing depression would take over.

Receiving the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder—at 36 years old—was a turning point. It provided a clear framework and a better language to understand my ups and downs. It was a beacon of hope amid decades of confusion, and it finally gave me the tools to navigate my mental health journey. Still, it would take over a year to find the proper medications. When I did, they continued to help me live mostly symptom-free.

I am an award-winning academic, internationally sought- after speaker, successful business owner, and leader in my field. I work closely with many Jewish organizations on issues of institutional betrayal and accountability. Publicly sharing my diagnosis with this article feels like it might end up being my biggest mistake. Yet, my relative success and privilege compel me to write this on behalf of so many others who live under stigma.

I am neither constrained nor defined by my illness. It requires daily medication compliance, regular check-ins with my psychiatrist, and a solid relationship with my therapist. It involves self-awareness, discipline, and a robust support system. Still, I have a beautiful life. I am proud of who I am. I would change nothing, not even this diagnosis.

Yet despite all this, why have I until now remained cautious about disclosing my diagnosis in Jewish communities? Because I’ve been directly harmed by people I thought cared deeply about me. Once, during an overwhelming depressive episode, I reached out to two friends in my Jewish community for support. One called me shortly after to tell me that the other was now “afraid of me” and “scared to work closely with me” because I was mentally ill.

At another time, a leader in my Jewish community told me that she “didn’t have time for a three-hour therapy session” when I asked if we could meet to talk about an issue that had arisen in our leadership team. She indicated that she was the “victim of my episodes” and that she felt “spun around in circles” because I have Bipolar Disorder.

People don’t use language like this in the absence of a disclosure of mental illness. They use it precisely because it is hurtful. Hurtful rhetoric by those in our Jewish orbits mimics what we hear on the national stage. We are living in a time of meanness. I’ve been thinking a lot about the national climate we find ourselves in, led by an administration filled with bullies who pride themselves on using hateful and derogatory language for marginalized people, including those with mental illnesses. This leads to palpable anxiety for me, and may be alarming both to those with mental health diagnoses and to all Jews. As the world continues to feel less safe, it is more important than ever that we build safer and more inclusive Jewish spaces, not just in name but in practice.

Being a Jewish person with a stigmatized mental illness has been isolating. Not only have I been met with direct cruelty and silence, but I have also witnessed Jewish leaders hurl insults and slurs about mental illness. I have listened to leaders use someone’s perceived mental illness as an excuse not to do the right thing for them. Though these experiences are not representative, they are noteworthy. Mostly, in fact, people have refused to acknowledge or discuss my struggle, opting instead for what I think of as toxic positivity or uncomfortable silence.

Some may have a desire to be more inclusive, but there is no know-how in our institutions. The tent still needs to expand if it is going to encompass people who are living with mental illnesses.
I have kept quiet out of fear that people will judge me or that Jewish organizations won’t work with me. But I’ve realized that staying silent only adds to the stigma. Speaking out offers opportunities for individuals and institutions to learn.

There are things you can do to be more inclusive. These are not particularly onerous, but will make a huge difference.

• Using person-first language is a great start. For example, I am a person with Bipolar Disorder, not a Bipolar person. You can honor the language someone chooses for themselves, so listen to what they say when they describe themselves.
• A small but powerful change is to avoid using derogatory terms, like “crazy” or “psycho,” even when you mean no harm.
• You can listen without judgment when someone confides in you.
• Jewish organizations can provide access to quality mental health services and safe opportunities to talk about mental health. They can offer training opportunities for employees to recognize the signs of a mental health crisis or to become a mental health ally. Institutions can create policies around healthy work-life balance.

We can do many simple things to let people know they matter and belong.

While I still work closely with Jewish institutions, I no longer practice organized Judaism. I haven’t been to shul in more than three years. Belonging to a community that speaks about being inclusive without practicing inclusivity contradicts my values and causes more harm.

These days, I find my Judaism among the Joshua trees of the Mojave Desert or along the miles of hiking trails that meander through the red rock outcroppings of the American Southwest. If the conditions permit, I’ll be barefoot, savoring the sand between my toes and the warm sun on my shoulders. Experiencing the earth beneath me is grounding and humbling.

It is from that grounded and humble place that I share my journey. I want to encourage more open and honest conversations about mental illness precisely because the current world feels daunting and, at times, full of despair. We need each other. Together, let’s create a more accepting and understanding Jewish world.

Alissa Ackerman is an Associate Professor of Criminal Justice, California State University, Fullerton and a public speaker, writer and restorative justice advocate.