By Brooke Bell
Mali and I cruise underneath the broad shady tree and head towards the pole set up on the long side. Her mom’s voice echoes behind me, slow your post, 1 … .2 …1… 2… and I hear her, but my body and brain can’t comprehend how she’d want me to go any slower. I point the off-the-track thoroughbred mare at the pole on the ground between two jump blocks, and I feel her body relive her wins at Finger Lakes, poised and quick like a cat.
She launches three feet in the air over the pole and, with four hooves off the ground, protests me getting left behind her immaculate attempt by throwing her head and planting her feet as she canters off towards the end of the ring. I sigh and bring her down to a walk, and tell her mom, It was my rhythm, right? She nods. Way too fast.
I rode horses for ten years, through being a volatile and undiagnosed bipolar child with extreme anxiety and dissociation. At 14, an injury properly side-lined me for over a decade, until I could tame my body’s illnesses and my brain’s pain.
At 24, after moving out and experiencing psychosis as an adult, I finally believed in my bipolar I diagnosis and sought proper treatment. Now at 28, I’m more stable than I have been, in part because of the horses and the well-deserved sweat that working as a freelance horse sitter and working off my leases has earned me.
In popular media, bipolar disorder is portrayed as a beast you must hate. It is the roaring lion or sad donkey in the back of your brain making you say horrible things to your loved ones or go on rampant benders, sucking every last penny out of your account for your next pint.
And yeah, I can agree that the disorder is just that—causing disorder. It has racked up my debt when my impulse control was non-existent, inspired some sober months to tame my craving for another drink and another party, and my flippant mood has inspired my partner, parents, and friends to take a deep breath and sigh.
For a sport like equestrianism, you are expected to have a high level of control over your mood, your body, and, for anyone who has worked in the industry, the very depths of your soul. Horses will not put up with your anxiety, or fatigue, or any flaw—we are told (I believe and have seen that they are much more forgiving than the people who enjoy them, although a few of them model their empathy after their wonderful horses).
Mental illness, although more recently talked about, and physical illness, often a reason for firing in the industry if people are open (been there), are seen as something you can’t bring up or discuss in equestrian circles. Despite most horse people being properly mad, the stigma remains.
However, I believe that for a lot of us equestrians, especially those with mental health conditions who are often drawn to the empathetic animals that equines are for their alleviation of symptoms, we can find power in our symptoms.
I can only speak truly to my own intersection of illnesses. Bipolar disorder has bright spots and downfalls, and sometimes, for me, both exist in the same episode. But I also believe that perspective is everything in a sport where mistakes happen daily, and our athletic partners can die of a tummy ache, yet somehow jump four feet from a standstill.
I experience manic or hypomanic, depressive, and mixed episodes. Unfortunately, I am one of the special cases that get mixed episodes more than anything, meaning a treatment plan is not straightforward. After four years of trial and error, something finally works. However, like all medicine and science, it’s not foolproof.
During my manic episodes, an ex-racehorse’s gallop can feel like a standstill. I rush towards 10-inch fences like they’re 1.40 m jump off oxers, and every time Mali’s owner tells me to slow down, I am in a totally different reality than her, where her mare’s quick-paced extended trot is a western pleasure jog.
My brain jumps and gallops off from topic to topic, and I forget what I said as soon as it leaves my lips. But I am passionate, and I will try over and over again til I get it right. I use these high-energy periods to clean tack, catch up on barn chores, do some extra workouts, watch YouTube lessons on topics I’m getting better at, and daydream about my goals.
During my depressive episodes, a slow trot feels too fast to ride. I sluggishly approach crossrails and get refusals. Sometimes the only reason I get out of bed is to run a curry comb down a coat or because I have some horses to feed. And when I do, it helps. I feel the dark cloud lift with every whinny and nuzzle. I take these periods slower, focusing on technique, focusing on feel, and understanding when to give aids, focusing on breathing deeply, and bonding with the horses that make my life have meaning.
Mixed episodes are like the stereotypical nightmare of a chestnut thoroughbred mare (a stereotype I hate). She is angry, but wants to be close to you, but if you touch her—run! I think the worst things about myself while having the energy to do something about them. These can be dangerous episodes.
They take every tool in my mental health toolkit to navigate. However, learning to navigate them has made it easier for me to use similar emotional tools on a show day, or with nerves at a clinic, or sadness over a setback.
My late therapist, William, always told me that when life hands you lemons, use them as a weight machine. Every difficult thing you are handed can be a way to learn coping skills and life skills that can make everything else in life easier. I’ve tried to do this as I’ve been back to horses for the last two years. Horses are an all-consuming hobby, sport, or profession. It is as deep in your DNA as the coding for mental health conditions.
I don’t mean to say that mental health conditions are a superpower or not to be taken seriously. Proper treatment, although often inaccessible or challenging to find, is important to live a full life. It took a decade of searching for me to find what worked for me and to have access and privilege for treatment.
What I mean to imply is that a lot of our challenges become lessons that can help us even in our most beloved time spent with horses. If you’re out there struggling with mental health and how it fits into the puzzle that is equestrianism, you’re not alone. In my time posting about my journey on social media, I’ve met so many amazing people beaten down by the sport and their brains and how they intersect.
I hope by reading this, you get a sense that there is hope. There is a chance that your manic symptoms can help you win a jump-off. Or depression gives you access to the emotional state of that neglect case your horse-sitting client took on. Sometimes you have to ride side-by-side with your challenges, and sometimes they can become friends and companions. Keep on getting on, and keep on riding.
