“There is hope, even when your brain tells you there isn't.”
--John Green, Turtles All the Way Down
Approximately twenty years ago, I struggled mightily under the crushing weight of mental illness. In my twenty-seventh year of teaching, I had completely burnt out as clinical depression and OCD had totally debilitated me. Still employed and struggling with the illness I had been fighting for seventeen years, I felt as if death would be a welcome relief from the continuous suffering. I was helpless, hopeless, and increasingly suicidal.
I was at the end of my teaching career and daily taking up to six medications, whose own side effects were part of my erratic behavior. Psychiatrists had adjusted this drug cocktail time after time during numerous past flareups. However, suffice it to say nothing was working now, and the disease plus the lack of sleep and guilt I felt for failing to conquer my own infirmity made things far worse. I can't tell you how often I prayed that some physical, not mental, handicap would have afflicted me. I knew others saw me as crazy or simply unable to “buck it up” and get over it.
Then, there were those who believed I was somehow “faking it.” They did not see my behavior as an illness at all. Instead, they concluded I was suffering from lack of trying – a sign of weakness as a major character flaw. I even felt that for awhile until I admitted I was not in control of anything.
I can't really remember all the struggles and complication that led to my final decision to accept disability, a condition pronounced by my doctors and those of the Ohio Education Association. At that point, I was so depressed that I felt as if any relief was my last chance for sanity. I knew I had failed my teaching and family obligations – in brief, I was damaged and ashamed. The failure then defined my existence.
Somehow over the coming years – although punctuated with two more major setbacks, each an even deeper dive into insanity – I have found long-term stability. I now function well, and I no longer feel the crippling effects of my illness. Do we say a mental illness is in “remission”? I don't know. At any rate, my life is normal as long as I take my meds and follow the doctor's orders. I realize the conditions for my normality.
It is very important for me to acknowledge both the stigma of mental illness and the victory over the affliction. Sometimes I worry depression will return and render me completely helpless, yet I know all I can do to guarantee a happy existence is to remain under medical care. My dependence upon drugs can be viewed as a lifelong dependency, and finding relief in pharmaceuticals has caused me to understand how fortunate I am to be a survivor – albeit one beholden to pills.
My friends realize the state of the “real me,” and, upon inquiry, I refuse to bury details of my condition. I share with them my story. Still, I am certain some people think permanent damage has rendered me different, even permanently unstable – a “nut case.” And, to those who contract mental disease I say: “Figure out why you are reluctant to get professional help. Do not worry about what others may think, and take the first scary steps to recovery.”
I vividly remember my first visit to the psychiatrist. I reluctantly walked to his office in the snow. The dark, winter conditions intensified my sadness and uncertainty. I felt as if I was entering a place inhabited by kooks and deranged loons. Little did I know how many others shared my disease. I just about turned back several times, but something made me continue. When the doctor took one look at my physical condition and evaluated my state of mind, he said: “You are one of the most depressed individuals I have ever seen.” I felt his concern and understanding. It was then that I began my long journey out of the deep pit that had swallowed my life.
We all pay heavy dues during our feeble existence, and it is my brain and nervous system that demands its timely settlement. Call it “chemical imbalance.” Call it “psychiatric behavior.” I call it “disease.” Those, like me, who suffer from mental illness understand how although we are enslaved by our condition, we must fight to keep the illness from making us its slave. We are no different from others even though some would see us that way. We are not inherently “crazy.”
I want to say this …
I feel well and fine. I feel capable of doing anything my sixty-nine year-old body and mind will allow me to do. I am capable of reasoning, thinking, and making good decisions. In all of those respects, I feel as normal as you. I now love my life.
However …
I understand how mental illness, without proper care, can limit your life and even completely debilitate you. I understand the terrifying reality of accepting your infirmity and becoming a needy psychiatric patient. For your family and friends to accept you in this state, I believe you must be both transparent and exceedingly gracious for their love and support. I know I couldn't have lived without them.
And, I feel one more realization must be met. Mental illness not only induces a patient's suffering but also creates tremendous hardship for their loved ones. The suffering incurred by all makes life miserable during treatment. However, love and care help overcome the illness. Ups and downs must be expected. I pray I can reciprocate some of the love I received now.
Describing my illness to those who have never experienced it is difficult. Suffice it to say, I have had broken bones and other physical ailments that hurt much less than depression and totally unbalanced OCD. I say this in no attempt to minimize the pain of any physical ailment. I simply confirm my own experience.
In an effort to clarify an understanding of my struggle with clinical depression, allow me to use quotes from others who have felt similar anguish.
“When I’m in the absolute depths of depression everything is an effort. Everything. From something as big as going out and facing people to something as small as just moving. When I’m at that point, I don’t want to live but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. It’s actually when I start to feel things again and get a tiny bit of motivation that I’m in the most danger.”
– Anonymous
“I think JK Rowling has it right. The dementors are such a great image, its like a creature sucking out the best and happy memories while telling you you’re rubbish and making you relive the bad. It then uses the bad as an attack against your self esteem to make you believe you don’t deserve better. Eventually you just become numb and disconnected.”
– Katie Prieto
Note: Dementors “glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope and happiness out of the air around them,” according to a description in the book “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” They can suck good feelings and happy memories out of their victims, and were drawn from the author's own battles with depression.
“It is like someone came along and stole all the pleasure in my life. The things I used to enjoy become empty and meaningless and it is a struggle just to exist. Every ounce of strength goes on just getting to the end of the day and I feel like a battery the never gets enough time to fully recharge before I am using the energy again.”
– Sheena Mays
“I had terminal numbness. I couldn’t laugh, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t think clearly. My head was in a black cloud and nothing in the outside world had any impact. The only relief that came was through sleep, and my biggest dread was waking up knowing that I had to get through another 15 hours before I could sleep again.”
– Graeme Cowan, author of Back from the Brink: True Stories and Practical Help for Overcoming Depression and Bipolar Disorder
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