RealMental

by Kelliqua

Some days the load is too heavy. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep and the pressure bearing down on my shoulders drives my body, like a wooden peg, into the ground. The sadness is all consuming, the fear overwhelming. I don’t want to think, but the thoughts rampage unstoppable through my brain. I am frustrated that I am powerless and that no amount of physical or mental exertion will conquer the greater forces at hand.

I am not bipolar. I am not clinically depressed. I don’t have unspecified mental disorders. My beautiful, intelligent, twenty year old son wears the label, but the burden that he lives with emanates outward and is carried by all of us – myself, the Husband, and his siblings.

Weeks, maybe months pass when he is employed, looks forward to attending an apprenticeship course at the VoTech school, is seeing a nice girl. He is holding steady, striving to sort out his mind, to be comfortable in his own skin. He has goals, dreams and is optimistic. Family dinners and evenings are a laughing, teasing riot. The husband comes home from work and doesn’t feel the crush of walking into a war zone or a fog of heavy emotion. I can sleep at night, the worry-meter quietly humming on Low.

Then the hostage crisis occurs. Our household is enveloped in the black cloud of tension, rage, despair and/or irrationality. On the front lines, husband and I are taxed to the limit counseling, coaxing, searching out treatment centers and therapies. We try to ensure as little disruption as possible to the siblings’ lives, but we all know that the true ruler of our kingdom isn’t any one of us individually or as a group, it is bipolar.

The teens sigh at the “Crazy” brought on by the most minor of upsets (in their eyes), or often, from seemingly out of the blue. They cancel plans, advising friends that spending time at our house is not an option for awhile. When the resulting withdrawal of self-medication attempts make sharing a bedroom an uncomfortable predicament the Other Son stays over at friends’ houses – in essence kicked out of his own room. Girl retreats to the sanctity of her bedroom, escaping into the world of teen-aged romance novels, text messages and music.

Years of high dose psycho-tropic medications have rendered his liver swiss cheese. There is no pharmaceutical “cure” for him.

We are left to our own devices.

Some days we are all so, so tired.

Republished from A Woman Scorned, July 2007.

Bittersweet.

That’s the taste in my mouth as I realize the long-term effect of personal transparency.

In my first ministry I saw the sins of omission and lies nearly collapse an entire church. I thought that the only thing that can bring you down is the secrets you keep. When I left there and came to my current employer, I vowed to speak the truth and be as transparent as one can be.

So I have practiced my beliefs and never hid anything about my mental illness from my employer, co-workers, family and friends. Throughout my entire life I have battled depression. My first serious episode was when I was 9. My last serious episode was over 10 years ago. Of course, there have been smaller episodes throughout my life, but they are managed by counseling, medication and occasionally taking a mental health day. I make no secret of it and often joke about it. Sometimes, when I am overly emotional, I know that my depression has contributed to me being emotional, angry, loud or hurt. The only thing I can do is apologize and try to compensate or minimize the impact. I thought I had earned the respect of my co-workers, family and friends by the way I manage my illness.

I was wrong. I recently discovered that the opposite is true. Some of these people have judged me based on the abnormal behaviors observed and discounted the normal behaviors completely boxing me in to a ‘crazy lady’ status. This isn’t totally surprising but it is disappointing.

Did you know that until 1994, employers were allowed to ask about treatment for mental illness on an job application but not about other physical illnesses? Until 1999, the California insurance companies weren’t required to cover the expenses for mental illness because they weren’t considered physiological illnesses. Now we all know better, right? Although the cause of mental illness can come from a variety of sources (biological, psychological, or environmental), the treatment is often pharmaceutical in combination with therapy.

People with mental illnesses have made significant and profound contributions to our world; a few of the well known are: *Paula Abdul, John Quincy Adams, Lionel Aldridge, Buzz Aldrin, Drew Barrymore, Kim Basinger, Justine Bateman, Ned Beatty, Irving Berlin, Leonard Bernstein, Ludwig von Beethoven, Steve Blass, Robert Boorstin, Art Buchwald, .. (100’s more in the C through U headings) .. Jean-Claude Van Damme, Vincent van Gogh, Ben Vereen, Queen Victoria, Kurt Vonnegut, Mike Wallace, Damon Wayans, Ricky Williams, Robin Williams, Tennessee Williams, Brian Wilson, Frank Lloyd Wright, Tammy Wynette, Boris Yeltzin and Robert Young.

Now that I know that some discounted me because of my illness, it makes me question the value of transparency. Should I have kept it secret so that it couldn’t be held against me? Is my reputation and contribution worthless because of my transparency?

And knowing I am being judged: Will it only be after my death that my contributions will be appreciated or respected (no, I am not assuming that I of the caliber of those on the list above)? Do I succumb to the devil in the disease that says, “They will never trust you. They will never believe you are capable. They will always discount you because of your mental illness”?

The answer is ..and pardon my choice of words.. no f**king way! I am a child of God. Unique and wonderfully made. My life has purpose and meaning with or without your approval. By being transparent I have lived out my values and honestly, have no regrets for it.

One thing will change – those who wish to continue to box me in know this: it is not acceptable. I may not be Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill or Robin Williams (and neither are you), but I am a contributing member of society (just like you).

For those of you feeling like you might be one of “those” people in my life – you probably aren’t. The ones who are “those” people won’t have their eyes opened by this rant. Thanks for listening.

Wendy Johnson
San Diego, CA

Republished from A Woman Scorned, July 2007.

By Dad Gone Mad

One of the great things about recovering from a mental illness is the semi-regular opportunity one has to sit in the psychiatrist’s waiting room and try to deduce whether the other patients are more or less batshit than you are.

It’s fun because it’s simply not the kind of game people with other illnesses and ailments play. Would a man waiting to see his cardiologist scan the waiting room, wondering if perhaps the old guy across the room reading the four-month-old issue of Auto Upholstery Weekly has a more life-threatening aortal blockage than his? Do women waiting for their electrolysis appointment try to see if the other ladies in the room have fuller moustaches? Of course not. It’s just not done. But when you’re a looney, it’s somehow a comfort to know (or at least believe) that there are others in the room who are worse off that you (sort of the opposite of penis envy).

The first time I ever walked into to a psychiatrist’s office, I expected to find people banging their heads against the drywall or drooling all over the pages of Highlights For Children or quoting Jack Nicholson to the receptionist: “PUT YOUR HAND IN THE AIR, CHIEF! DON’T YOU WANT TO WATCH THE GAME, CHIEF?” But it wasn’t like that at all, and part of me was disappointed. In fact, the only real crazy person I saw that day was the psychiatrist himself — a balding, sweater-wearing old man with a thousand-mile stare who talked in barely audible whispers and appeared to be simultaneously under the influence of a valium, Milk of Magnesia and Grey Goose. Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist.

The new guy is of Middle Eastern descent and his receptionist has gargantuan breasts. She speaks to me very nicely, in a practiced, polished, professional tone that seems to say, “If you’re severely disturbed and homicidal, I hope that my sexy voice and this up-close view of my enormous cans will convince you to walk away and kill someone other than me.” The waiting room is bright and spacious and loaded with pamphlets about antidepressants that contain happy, supportive phrases like “not feeling yourself lately” and “get back to being you.” This doctor, whom we’ll call Dr. Dingleheimer, seems to attract a more affluent mix of crazies, and in the half-dozen times I’ve been there over the years I always have a good time deconstructing the white-collar psychos and projecting various ailments and lifestyles onto them. It makes me feel better about myself to imagine that they are, in fact, certifiably wacko.

There’s a woman sitting next to the magazine rack. See her? She’s here seeking treatment for a unique kind of behavioral disorder — the kind where anytime someone says the word “chicken,” she stands up, tucks her hands under her armpits like wings and begins to cluck. “Buh-kawk! Buk-buk-buh-kawk!” Such a sad, misunderstood chick. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: 95,000 mg. of Wellbutrin before bedtime (may be taken with or without food) and for God’s sake, stay away from all KFC locations.

Oh, and see that man over there by the window? He’s here because he has trouble with childhood memories of his father, the kind of man most would describe as an overzealous Little League dad. He was pushed so relentlessly by his father to excel at baseball that he came to believe this was the only way he could earn his dad’s love. The man is in his late 40s now. His father died over a decade ago but the man still walks around wearing a batting helmet. He had thick black lines tattooed under his eyes. And whenever he gets nervous, he begins to chant “Hey, batter, batter, batter. Hey, batter, batter, batter. Swing!” over and over again. Naturally, these issues have had decidedly negative affect on the man’s love life and his work as a librarian. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: 600 mg. of Zoloft eight times a day and start rooting for the Chicago Cubs (which would break just about any baseball fan’s enthusiasm for the game in no time flat).

And then there’s the man who is in with Dr. Dingleheimer right now, a man who likes to curse and make funny noises so much that he pretends to have Tourette’s Syndrome just so he has an excuse. Before he went in to see the doctor, he was sitting here looking for nudity in the January issue of Cosmopolitan, going, “Woop! Fuck it! Click. Click. You’re an asshole. ASSHOLE! Wooooooop! Fuck it!” It’s a nice show, but it gets a little old after 15 minutes. So now he’s in there with the doctor and I can hear his antics through the door. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: For starters, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

See? I’m not so crazy after all.

By Dad Gone Mad

Tonight I saw a man wandering aimlessly through a busy intersection. He was wearing filthy gray sweatpants and a weathered t-shirt, no shoes, and the thousand-mile stare of someone in severe psychological and emotional peril. He had nowhere to go, no idea where he was going and presumably no one to go to.

There was a time, not long ago, when I would have scowled at such a pathetic character, sneering him off as a nuisance impeding the flow of traffic and getting in the way of my very, very important life. I had no time for compassion; I would have forgotten him by the time I’d reached the next intersection and never thought of him again. But that’s no longer the case.

Almost six years ago, the advertising agency for which I worked succumbed to the dot-bomb. I had an infant son, a mortgage and suddenly a very fragile belief in myself. I spent the better part of 2000 trying to find gainful employment again, but to no avail. Eventually, the stress and pressure swallowed me up and I was diagnosed with clinical depression. There is no greater blow to one’s ego, no faster ride to the bottom than the moment someone tells you you have a mental health problem and hands you a prescription for Zoloft.

I remember the fear. I had no idea what depression meant. I assumed I was a pussy, that I was somehow deficient or unprepared. I was mortified, and I held my diagnosis close to my vest. I didn’t need the judgmental people I knew holding this against me, believing (as I did) that depression was merely a window into a deeper, more compromising imperfection in my brain or my character or my ability to function in the real world. Would the pitfalls and disappointments of everyday life present challenges I was no longer fit to confront? Would I freak out? Could people see it on my face?

There were times during my depression when I genuinely feared that I would spend the rest of my days in a psych ward (although I have never seen the inside of one and according to virtually every analysis I heard, my case was mild). I feared that I wouldn’t be able to watch my child grow up. I feared that my wife would be relegated to raising our child by herself. And I feared that I would end up like the man I saw hobbling through the intersection tonight — alone, adrift, oblivious. Those feelings and nightmares were worse than any physical symptom.

But I was fortunate. I had health insurance. I had a home. I had money to pay for the drugs I needed. I had a child who gave me reason to persevere through the sadness and lethargy and the lowest lows I have ever known. I had a wife who gracefully juggled the very ominous trifecta of raising an infant son, bringing-in money to pay the bills and nursing me back to quote-health-unquote. I don’t know how she did it and I have never found the words to adequately articulate my gratitude to her for that. I don’t know that I ever will.

I ultimately found my way back to normal (whatever that means), got a job and started rebuilding myself brick by brick. Then at about this time last year, it happened again. And again I found the same motivations to chug through the exhausting task of recovery — my wife and my children and, to a certain extent, the weak-bladdered dog who inspires me to go to work each day so I can afford to replace the shag carpet she stains with her caustic piss.

Tonight, not two hours after I saw the man in the intersection, I saw my wife holding our baby daughter in her arms, singing her a lullaby. I watched my daughter’s eyes grow heavy as she fought sleep. It was the kind of moment that affirms one’s decision to persevere through the hard times. It was the kind of moment that erases from memory the dirty diapers and the vomit that looks and smells like blueberry yogurt and watching the same Barney video so many times that you find yourself humming “Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, Please Shine Down On Me” to yourself in the shower.

Still, I believe there is not such a drastic difference between the man in the intersection and the man at this keyboard. A lucky break here and there perhaps.

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