Bipolar Disorder - Personal Story

I can't believe my luck. Nearing fifty years old, I was finally back in the driver's seat, safer, more comfortable, more aware than I'd ever been able to be.

My luck is amazing. Three out of six psychiatrists treated me for full blown manic depression, with intelligence and warmth. One doctor ignored my fears and pushed medication, condemning me to lithium for life, a thought I couldn't tolerate in the throes of onset in 1981. The second forced me to form future goals despite the fact both my parents were dying of cancer, my creators who took me in the two times psychosis overwhelmed me. The third insisted I had an eating disorder; he failed to call me back when, in a state of panic, I appeared in his waiting room eating bananas, remedy for anxiety I'd been told; he didn't see me between patients I waited for three, then left; it took an hour walking the streets of a development without sidewalks before I felt safe to get back in my car. The national average should be better than three out of six. The fact it isn't I attribute to lack of heart. In the rub of time and money, patients become one more chart to fill, one more obstacle to the next step. People forget the person trapped inside the spin of imbalance. People forget that heart anchors spirit, that part of us mental disorder claims first.

Lost, though I was, in the bipolar storm, my family, my friends, my colleagues anchored me to some sense of myself beyond mental illness. They believed I would recover, and they never stopped reminding me of that fact.

Full blown mania took me further into feelings than the adventurer in me cares to brave again. I reeled in the shock of losing my mind long years after. I couldn't get beyond the ring of incessant emotions. I couldn't find myself in the years cancer coveted my parents, keeping suicidal intention alive in me I wouldn't lose them if I died first.

I never stabilized long enough to see manic depression as an illness to recognize and fight.

Writing my story kept my spirit alive deep in mental disorder;
it gave me a sense of control; it was a challenge I could conquer.

I couldn't step back and target its triggers; like breathtaking, sleep taking, weight taking responses; like finding negatives in neutral territory; like overreacting to word and deed.

Fate brought me back to Buffalo after twenty seven years, reviving the spirit of my childhood after my parents died eighty one days apart in 1987. In the return of energy, and under medical supervision, I withdrew from norpramine, Ativan, and lithium one by one, cutting Xanax back to one at night for sleep. I learned the hard way that I needed maintenance doses of lithium. Now, I bless the fact it's available and that it works for me. Lithium lets me moderate my reach into intensities without dulling their gleam, without hurting myself and others. Final freedom from fear. An amazing release, leading me out of isolation to work in a field where I'd already taken root.

My recovery began in the city of my birth. Being there brought back the past, when time was more positive than negative, that balance lost in the years of disorder. Through the grief choked, raw daze that followed the loss of my parents, in Buffalo I felt eighteen again, the age I was when I left for college, then Manhattan, then Chicago, never once thinking of Buffalo as home once my parents went south. I was an artist then, painting life on canvas, creating my heart's desires through shape and color.

Passion for writing came from mental disorder out of my need to understand and live with my fears. Writing gave my thoughts and feelings black and white definition, leaving no room for speculation. Writing my story kept my spirit alive deep in mental disorder; it gave me a sense of control; it was a challenge I could conquer.

Halted by grief for two years, my book, "Change of Mind," took on new life late in 1989, a drive into bliss that ended with escalating mania and the desire to take my medicine.
In 1990, I sent my book to another agent. Like the others, he said if I were a celebrity, he'd take it.

The days grew longer, their weight increased. I canceled a date. I recognized the impulse to isolate and called him back.

Days came more slowly, left more slowly. It was February, and I was too tired to write. I didn't feel well. My book, my "child," had been rejected, a refrain repeating in my mind.
One morning I awoke to a great sense of relief: gas logs fueled my bedroom fireplace. I could die in my bed, not in the oven. I didn't have to leave my dog, Flyer, behind.

Pleasure centered within me, absorbing intolerable pain. my dog kissed me into feeding and walking her. It was cold that morning, and snow was falling in slow separate patterns; heavy, wet. I looked up into arcing flakes coming like sparks from Fourth of July rockets. I stood awhile, white rain gathering on my glasses, against my face. Snow covered my lenses.

From the side of fulfillment, I could see the notion of suicide as option, not order, as flame to my moth. Memory of rejection chased me home, Flyer beside me. She came back to bed with me. My book was turned down me, my life, my art. I called my doctor; he increased lithium and Xanax.

Quietly came the thought that my book had value beyond public acceptance. Writing it had challenged and inspired me through all but darkest time, keeping alive the only part of me I could like, the only part of me I could trust. Every rewrite distanced me further from the grand and hideous sides of psychosis. Every revision clarified my perspective, feeding me insights and self knowledge, turning pain into art, validating experience.

In its latest version, the first signs of disorder became visible to me, signs blinded by familiarity till they appeared in black and white, over and over again.

Finally I understood that I've always been manic depressive, that sleepless nights and weight loss encouraged brain chemical imbalance.

Finally, I perceived my book as a survival manual. Others could find themselves, hold on to themselves, by putting their lives on paper. That realization matured March 1991 when my first "Wordshop" met at a psychiatric day treatment center; a second group followed six months later.

Our progress in enlightenment touches heart, touches soul, structuring senses of accomplishment; a kind of positive feedback only possible when forged by a tolerance and understanding bred by uncommon common ground. Survivors feed hope to those still deep in struggle. Every recovery adds escape routes. We are the heroes of our stories. Putting that in writing mortars self esteem, as an act of creation, as a shoulder, as a road to self awareness. Understanding is crucial to wellness, the core of comfort.

How I hurt for those who meet contempt whichever way they turn. In the shift of mental disorder, distortion becomes reality. And the reality of distortion becomes agony. I bless the luck that makes me respond to medicine. I hurt for those who can't.

I now stop disorder long before sobs wrench me at sight of the evening news, long before disagreement feels like betrayal. Balance keeps intensity from raging, easier to live with.

Communing with Satan in the heaven of death taught me the value of
medication. I don't want to enter that mind again. I don't want to get even close to the Messiah. I can't feel secure inside intensity unless I know what it is, what triggers it. Only then can I fight the Messiah and Satan.

All my life people have said, "Slow down; relax; calm down; don't be so serious." They still say it. But not as often, nor as emphatically.

The month of May found me in love. The falling part sent me to a social worker who had helped a friend. She taught me to ride panic, something three psychologists and six psychiatrists had failed to do.

Mental illness is a profound human state. It disables, it kills if unchecked. But death, unlike movies insist, comes far more from suicide than homicide. Fall 1991, I learned that death also comes from incompetence, from ignorance, from fear.

I thought the snake pit was closed in the fifties. Those staffing the treatment center where I volunteer "Wordshop" promoted that belief. They treat everyone with respect and intelligence. Their programs include symptom management, assertiveness, working and living assessment, cognitive therapy, exercise, relaxation, music, painting, writing, cooking, individual and group counseling. That their method of rehabilitation is the exception rather than the rule runs anger through me. How can anyone think for themselves if others regiment every aspect of life, ignoring basic needs like money and home management, communication and vocational skills? How can those so deprived possibly maintain balance outside an institution? How can anyone treat those so deprived with negligence, ignoring basic needs like dignity?

These issues were presented in November at a mental health self help/ advocacy training conference in Batavia, home of Terry Anderson, and of my future, my career no longer hostage to disorder. I almost didn't go. Being away from home with strangers beset me with claustrophobia; I didn't dare test expressway panic, a cab was impossibly expensive. Still, I wanted to know more about self help. My sister said she would come get me if I wanted to leave.

At the conference, I met others who'd journeyed through psychosis; I met directors of mental health agencies; I met directors from the New York State Office of Mental Health, sponsor of the conference. The bond of uncommon common ground filled the room; the bond of helping others help themselves breathed in that room, energy united in a way never met in the commercial world.

I was learning so much, and so much of what I believed was being confirmed.
The intensity of my interest grew. Mid afternoon, an advocate for mental health rights described her experience on a psych ward. I'd never known that kind of abuse in the name of care. I fled the room. Shuddering in the lobby, I had visions of being committed against my will. Visions of over medication, harsh voices, neglect. Visions of involuntary drugging, restraints, isolation. Drugging as punishment. And then I saw myself left alone with the fact my mind had turned against me.

My parents had cared for me in my months of psychosis. My parents were dead now. My sister might not be around, my brother was in Milwaukee.

A woman from the conference joined me. She said, "Self help/advocacy groups help peers manage disorder, and ensure fair treatment. Don't worry." She squeezed my hand. "When was your last episode?" Her grin was bright in her eyes. "I like being able to swap psychotic adventures," I responded. Laughing, we traded dates and returned to our table.

We heard about a bill before the New York State Senate that would extend involuntary commitment of anyone with a psychiatric label, even without signs of violence towards themselves or others. No more dancing on sidewalks, singing on corners, grumbling alone out loud about vicissitudes. Thank life that bill hasn't passed. But the politicians the ones putting finance before humanity haven't dropped it. And I think that is criminal.

Over drugging is criminal. I was overdosed on purpose once. But it was to haul me away from suicide, not punish me for being a bother. Over medication is violent. Three deaths on a psych ward in 1991 were due to over medication. There could be other deaths, ones hidden, ones where advocates for mental health rights are barred.

After the conference I joined a selfhelp/advocacy group, marching for Peace and Civil Rights as I had in my youth.

January 1992, I was appointed to the Board of Directors for Action for Mental Health, Inc., a group formed to work with agencies, providers and recipients of services to improve status quo.

In February, I was encouraged to apply for a consultant position with the New York State Office of Mental Health. It meant driving around the state evaluating self help groups funded by the National Institute of Mental Health. I had yet to conquer expressway panic. But I wanted to see what other groups were doing. I wanted to learn everything I could about mental health, my most important subject.

I was asked if I'd publicly admit my relationship with full blown manic depression. Surprised that mental illness was still a source of stigma, I declared that I was in a league with Churchill, Hemingway and van Gogh. I was nominated for "The 1992 Courage to Come Back Award in Mental Health", sponsored by a local business group and a United Way agency. I wanted the award. I wanted the consultant position. I feared the public speaking and the driving each would entail. I won both within days of each other. My lithium intake increased, as did Xanax.

The week before the Courage Dinner, I drove to Ithaca, site of my first evaluation. Fear ran high at the start of the three hour drive, but a friend's tape of "PRIVATE LIVES" distracted me. Into the second hour, anxiety disappeared. I relaxed and enjoyed the view.

Triumph carried me home. I'd conquered expressway panic ten years after it first occupied my mind. And then I faced five hundred people at the Courage Dinner, my fear of the microphone magnified by the heights of conquest. Mouth dry and with the shakes, I looked at the award, a glass sculpture shaped like a mountain. It sparkled in the spotlight. I looked over it and out at a thousand eyes looking back at me. My heart was racing. "It's a mountain," I said, holding the sculpture aloft. "And I'm a Capricorn we goats always climb mountains."

I wished I'd said I'd rather climb mental disorder than Mount Everest, and that madness taught me who, what and why I am. Madness led me to my love for words, and turned the story of losing my mind into art. And, in practicing my art, I found hope for myself. I found self esteem. I found self control.

I am a lucky one. I'm branching out again growing. And I owe it all to love and to madness.

From the pool of my genes
formed the poles from which
my life would swing
opposites attracting from up to down
how high, how low
extremes of nature few know.

Conquering psychosis
The heart, The spirit that comes from imbalance
Doors opening heaven in hell
Helping others help themselves.

PATRICIA OBLETZ is Editor in Chief of the Western New York quarterly publication Mental Health World.