Humans are bullies. We come into town, scare away the wildlife, trample the plants into the ground, and then turn on ourselves, telling mothers that breast milk is bad and cocaine in soft drinks is good. We only change our ways if forced by someone or something more powerful. Our treatment of the mentally ill is a window into our fear of “other.”
When I was a kid, we sang the song, “And they’re coming to take me away ha-haaa. They’re coming to take me away ho-ho hee-hee ha-haaa to the funny farm. Where life is beautiful all the time, and I’ll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats. And they’re coming to take me away ha-haaa.” Is it any wonder that a diagnosis of mental illness feels like a death sentence?
We don’t like weakness, sickness, or differences as a species. It’s a survival thing: Darwinian. In times past, weak or sickly babies were murdered. Ruthless. According to the families, it was required—an extra mouth to feed who couldn’t pull its weight was a drain on the family unit. It was life and death. We label those who are different so we can depersonalize them—calling them terrible, degrading names. When we win battles, we murder our enemies and rape their women and children. We evolve, though. Those things are illegal and considered appalling today.
During pregnancy, you can run an amniocentesis test–a test to make sure you don’t have a baby with “abnormalities.” I admit I had the test with my second child because I was considered an elderly mom, but thinking about it now, it seems barbaric and cowardly–a fear of other. Hopefully, this attitude doesn’t bleed into other areas. Or we might start testing for not enough—not pretty enough, not smart enough. You get the idea. The human race would be boring with all that perfection.
Those of us with unsound minds bear witness to these fear-based attitudes. We’ve been considered demonic. Some of us do perform evil acts—rape, sexual abuse, torture, and murder. I fear being lumped in with this group, but I am. I’ve never been arrested or actually physically hurt anyone. (Well, my brother and sister might disagree. We brawled when we were kids, and I was the oldest.) And when I’m babbling incoherently or raging, I’m a pariah.
Before I was diagnosed bipolar, I went to my psychiatrist, Dr. Smith, every other Thursday, not his real name. On this particular Thursday, he says, “Do you realize you’re talking very fast? I think you might be bipolar.” I say, “No, it’s the caffeine.” He keeps on it, though.
The following week, he asks again, “You know, you’re still talking fast.” I give him a dirty look, “I drink a lot of coffee. I’m not bipolar. I don’t want to be bipolar. I have enough stuff wrong with me already. Thank you.”
This dialogue goes on for weeks. Finally, he says, “OK. OK. You don’t think you’re bipolar. Will you at least agree to try this medication that helps a lot of bipolar people and see if it helps you?” After giving him the evil eye again, I say, “Fine. What is it?” It’s a testament to how bad I felt that I took the medicine, even after he said, “You have to titrate up very carefully; otherwise, you might get Stevens-Johnson Syndrome, which can be life-threatening.” With a smirk, I say, “Sure. Great.” It’s amazing the side effects that you have to put up with from medication these days—weight gain, sleepiness, weird facial tics, tongue pushing on the roof of my mouth (called Tardive Dyskinesia), hypothyroidism, potential death, low heart rate the list goes on. This fact is true with all medications. These side effects are the ones I’ve had to deal with. It’s better than the alternative, though. Right? For example, frontal lobotomies. Enough said.
Medication is the key to treating mental illness, at least for me. If I take my medication correctly, it is the difference between a hellish life and happiness, between voices in my head and peace. I need medication to be sane. Therapy, exercise, and religion don’t work.
At first, Dr. Smith would put me on meds and get me to the point that I was stable, and then he’d take me off all of them. After a few years of this, I said, “No more!” Each time, I would be fine. Go down off the meds and go crazy again. Since then, my doctors have tried to keep me stable, not going on and off all the time, only when necessary.
Here’s a secret. I’ve been thinking of going off everything, slowly, slowly, to give my body a rest. I’m sure I will get much resistance to that idea, at least going down to the least amount of meds possible.
I obsess about being locked away in an insane asylum. You know the one—mint green cinder block walls, strait jackets, huge orderlies that molest you, nurses who shoot you up with Thorazine when you make a fuss and hose you down with a fire hose that slams you against a wall in a hospital that looks like the dayroom in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” The very thought petrifies me.
A friend says, “Everyone is doing the best they can. If they could do better, they would.” I practice believing that for my own peace of mind. When I can do it, it works.
I’m reaching out to my fellow sufferers. I’m encouraging you, “See a doctor. Tell the truth. It gets better.”
For more information, see Bipolar disorder: new perspectives in health care and prevention.