Bury me softly in this womb I give this part of me for you Sand rains down and here I sit Holding rare flowers In a tomb… in bloom
Down in a hole and I don’t know if I can be saved See my heart I decorate it like a grave You don’t understand who they Thought I was supposed to be Look at me now a man Who wont let himself be
Down in a hole, feelin’ so small Down in a hole, losin’ control I’d like to fly, But my wings have been so denied
Down in a hole and they’ve put all The stones in their place I’ve eaten the sun so my tongue Has been burned of the taste I have been guilty Of kicking myself in the teeth I will speak no more Of my feelings beneath
Down in a hole, feelin’ so small Down in a hole, losin’ control I’d like to fly but my Wings have been so denied
Bury me softly in this womb Oh I want to be inside of you I give this part of me for you Oh I want to be inside of you Sand rains down and here I sit Holding rare flowers (oh I want to be inside of you) In a tomb… in bloom Oh I want to be inside…
Down in a hole, feelin’ so small Down in a hole, losin’ my soul Down in a hole, feelin’ so small Down in a hole, outta control I’d like to fly but my Wings have been so denied
Robert Plutchik's Wheel of Emotions (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My car recently blew a tire while I was on the expressway doing about 75 mph in heavy Easter morning traffic. I was very fortunate not to lose control of the car, and I
made my way off the expressway. I had also been hearing a noise every time I made a turn like you would make backing out of your driveway. I didn’t realize it was the CV joint going out on my axle where it connects with the wheel. The short point of this long story is I needed (in my mind) two things: Four new tires, and new brakes (I assumed the noise I was hearing from the wheel was the brakes.) So, I called my mother and explained the situation (key words called my mother), and she decided to have it towed from where I live in Los Lunas to a mechanic in Albuquerque for an evaluation of the work the car needed. When she sent me a scanned “invoice” estimating the work my car needed, I nearly went off the deep end. I was prepared to just call it quits. I had enough medication to do it (I am a pill popper). So, while I stared at the estimate of roughly $3500 worth of parts and labor, I was harboring in the back of mind that the easiest thing to do would just be to off myself. Nothing has been going very well in my life recently, so I figured I’d just take the easy way out. Instead, I called my mother. I was wondering how much of the work absolutely had to be done to make the car driveable and reliable again. I was looking at the invoice, and I figured the CV joints, the brakes, the tune up, the axles, and the tires. It all came to around $1100 less than the estimate. My mother agreed to pay for all the work it would need to keep it on the road for another 2 – 3 years. She spent $3500 fixing the car she had ended up buying because I had lost my job and could no longer make payments.
I got the car back yesterday, and ever since, I have been feeling nothing but guilt and shame; which are not exactly foreign feelings for me. I am 41 years old in a month or so, and up until the “diagnosis,” I was completely self sufficient, I had well paying jobs, and I took care of everything from car repair to paying the rent. I had only asked for help from my parents once, and that was when I was fired from my job, rent was due as well as all the other bills, and I had $273 which I spent of groceries. Somehow, imminent eviction is not as scary if you have full cabinets. Don’t ask me. It’s not like you can take the fridge with you when you get thrown out. So, I asked my parents to help me just get through the end of the semester at school, and then I would locate another job. And, that’s exactly how it worked. I was only 23 at the time so I didn’t feel too bad asking for help. Now, it is completely different.
Every time I have to ask for help, it triggers these horrible feelings of guilt and shame. I feel ashamed that I cannot manage on my own, and that I live on Social Security Disability. I feel ashamed that I am not in a position to handle monetary crises, and that my mother generally will bail me out. She shouldn’t have to. There are many examples of manic depressives that have “made it” despite the illness. Then, the guilt sets in. Guilt for being sick in the first place. Guilt that I apparently can not take care of myself financially without help. I have tried to go back to school twice, and flunked out both times. I do not understand that. I was an A student in undergraduate school. I feel guilt and shame about that. It is like the illness has sucked up everything I once was and spat it out again as this financially challenged, ineffectual, jobless, disaster of a person. My marriage is a wreck, and I do not know who to blame for that. I know it takes two people to make it work, and two people to jack it up, but I cannot help but feeling that it is my fault, and that if I weren’t mentally ill, everything would be fine. However, when I think about it, my husband is not the most emotionally stable person either, he just won’t admit to it. He has very dark moods that I personally feel is chronic major depression. But, what do I know, I have only been studying mental illness for ten years.
I just don’t understand why these feelings are listed as common symptoms of Bipolar Disorder. Every bipolar I have ever met, in hospitals and other places, have these feelings. They just manifest differently in people with the illness. Mine manifest as an urge to just go away so people don’t have to be bothered with me, and taking care of a 41 year child. But, I know that would cause great pain to those who still care about me. This seems to be a very isolating disease. The neediness of this disorder pretty much wipes out your social circle, it exhausts the people who love you, and it just takes and takes. It never seems to give back. It is an emotionally exhausting disorder for everyone; the person who has it, and the people who try to understand and support them.
My life used to be simple. I woke up, had some coffee then grabbed my bike and headed off for school. During the time when only my fiancé was working and I
mountain bike in downhill race in forest ski trail (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
was going to school, I used to mountain bike every morning without fail. I always went out between 9 am and 11 am (I am fair skinned, and the sun is still low enough in the sky that you won’t get burned as badly). Nothing beats the thrill of coming down that bitch of a hill that killed your legs going up. Especially if it is winding. It seems that I have always felt better on a bike.
I remember one ride where I actually hit the “zone” that athletes are always talking about. My then fiancé and I were up in the mountains and it started to storm quite seriously. I am talking about lightning and thunder at the same time. That’s how close the lightning was to us, and all I could think about was getting the heck out of there because my bike is made of carbon fiber. Carbon fiber is an electrical super conductor. So, I just started to haul ass out of there. I wasn’t into getting fried that day. It was the most amazing ride. I was one with the bike (which never happened), I was not thinking about how I was going to make a turn or over a log, I just found a way, and it worked. All I was really thinking about was, OMG mountain storm! Get out now! I think it was my favorite ride ever. I wish it were possible to use words to describe the experience of riding your bike through the mountains with all this lightning and thunder and hail and rain. It is one of the most exhilarating thing ever, And yes, it even beat sex.
Life was just so much simpler in those times. I was happy, I was in school and doing well, I was in love, and I had a great best friend that I used to go to the mountains with after school was out. He and I were like little kids, we explored everything that looked like it might be a trail. We were joined at the hip. If one of us showed up somewhere, it was a safe bet the other was not far behind. The sun is coming up, and the sky is turning pink. It is beautiful.
Anyway, this was long before the “diagnosis” and the medication-go-round that I ended up on. This was long before I got married which I am still trying to decide if that was big mistake or not. I love my husband, please do not get me wrong, it is just sometimes he can be incredibly difficult to deal with. He doesn’t seem to want to learn about what bipolar really is; he’d prefer to rely on his past 2 experiences with bipolar women, and both were total tramps. One was a “I’ll try anything once” type, the other one just cheated on him a lot. And neither one of them would stay on their medication so they were constantly going up and down. I, on the other hand, am medication compliant, and actually start to freak out when I have run out of medication because I know what happens when I do. It is simple, take your meds, and the mood swings will be closer to those that normal people have. It really isn’t rocket science nor does it require an advanced degree in physics.
What I think is that he cannot face his own depression. He has never received treatment for it until now when we finally reach a point where marriage counseling has become necessary, and they have a treatment plan that has us doing marriage counseling every two weeks and him doing one on one therapy every two weeks. He says that he has looked at himself and knows who and what he is. Therapy will fix that. Therapy forces you to look at yourself in a new light. He is going to finally have to confront the ugly in his nature. At least he will if he is honest with himself and the therapist. If he isn’t then therapy will do him no good. Therapy can be very scary. You will have to talk about things that you have buried so deeply it can take years to work your way through the maze of emotions surrounding the issue. I do not think he gets that. I have been in therapy for about 8 1/2 years, but I had some very dark things I had to take care of. I remember one session where I spent the entire session in a fetal ball (this was a few years ago). Something had triggered me. That’s another thing he needs to learn about: triggers. Once you can recognize them, you can control how you react to them, or at the very least manage not to let them set you off.
I love early morning. It is quiet, and people are leaving for work, or whatever it is they do for the day. It is my time for reflection. There are no demands being made on
Awake is the New Sleep (2005) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
me, and those dirty dishes from last night’s supper are not beckoning. It is when I write usually in the silence with the only noise being the birds talking to one another. But, no, not today. I got up at 6:15 (I could swear the clock said 6:45, but when you have a cat sitting on you staring while you sleep, the numbers get fuzzy). Here I am at 7:00 am having read some posts on the blogs I follow when out lurches a barely awake husband.
Oh no! There goes my quiet time, my “me” time, the chunk of time where I am not playing computer tech, getting chastised for something he perceives of as a wrongful action directed at him. You should of seen the potato chip fight we had the other night. It was ridiculous. He comes roaring over to my little bedroom “office” and proceeds to begin to yell about the fact that I had left only a handful of chips in the bag. I calmly held out the phone as he is waxing (loudly) philosophical about the state of our lack of potato chips, and asked him if he would like to say “Hello” to my mother. I have never seen someone shut up so fast. if I wasn’t so pissed off at him for acting like a deranged child, I might have laughed. In retrospect it is amusing as hell.
At least some of my time can be salvaged, he tends to retreat back to bed to watch the morning news. So, I get some of my time back. But, it won’t be long before he decides it is “time to get something done” and he’ll be up and mobile, and complaining about why his computer is acting funny. It is simple, and I have told him time and time again, his motherboard is 8 years old, it has got to give someday, and now is the time.
I am just irritated because he has taken to waking up well before he ought to (he goes to bed in the wee hours of the morning), and ruining that comfortable sense that I have of being the only soul that is awake. I am sure if you have ever woken before the sun is up, you know that comfortable and warm sense of security that is like being wrapped in a warm blanket, or a really nice thick robe.
I really do not like starting the day irritated. It just makes everything cold and prickly as opposed to warm and fuzzy. That, and I have no idea if his little problem with depression is coming out to play today because when it does he acts like an asshole (pardon my french). But, then, again so do a lot of people who are in denial of a mental condition. On the bright, I know what’s wrong with me. I have bipolar disorder, and quite frankly, I do not care who knows it.
I am moody, but I think I am swinging up because I have been getting by on a lot less sleep than usual, and I am having what is called “flight of ideas,” and I am starting but not finishing things. This may not be good. Hmmm… we’ll have to wait and see.
Why can I hear the TV from all the way across the house?
my mental illness, it is about your depression, and your lack of desire to learn even one iota about my “disease”. You are of no use to me if you do not understand me. I have the books, I have a veritable library of books about Bipolar Disorder.
This is not about my mental illness at all. You just attribute everything I think, say or do to the “illness.” I have news for you. I am a treated Manic Depressive, I don’t have very many episodes, so what you are criticizing is actually me. Not the illness.
This is not about me, either, it is about you not accepting your own mental illness. You have chronic depression. That means it does not go away on its own, your brain chemistry is off, and needs to be corrected. You have to learn how to ask for help because you are in sore need of it. It is not necessarily all me that is creating the problems in this marriage. You and your depression have as much to blame as I do. When you told that counselor that it is hard to live with someone who is depressed all the time, were you talking about me or you?
As you know if you have been following this blog, my husband and I are having dome difficulties in our marriage. We have not been talking to each other, and when we do, it almost always turns into a fight regarding my diagnosis of Bipolar I. Some how, I always get blamed for the problems in our marriage because I am officially diagnosed as mentally ill. The key part of that sentence is “I am officially diagnosed” where as he is not.
So, we’re going to be doing couple’s therapy, because neither one of us really wants to throw in the towel, and admit defeat. Besides, how can you admit defeat in a battle you’ve never fought; you can’t. So, marriage counseling. I was being nosy the other day, the papers were in plain view, so it wasn’t like I had to move boxes to see this weird little tidbit of information. He had reported to the counselor that it was “difficult to live with someone who is always depressed.” I thought that was an interesting comment. Especially since I am not always depressed, bored maybe, but rarely truly depressed. If I am, there are a whole bunch of red flags: not bathing, not changing my PJs, not getting out of bed, hyper somnolence, not washing my hair, no makeup, letting my manicure go. Like I said a whole lot of red flags that I am becoming or am already depressed.
With that having been said, I believe that my husband suffers from uni-polar depression. He is withdrawn, stays to himself, grunts when talked to, is constantly talking about making determinations and then taking action on them. I do not see him doing this at all. He spends all day, everyday on his computer. He will not admit to being depressed (a good sign that someone is). Fortunately, is the process of getting to marriage counseling, he is receiving one on one therapy which he is to continue even after we start marriage counseling (I have my own doctors). All of this is great, but his comment about it being difficult to live with some one who is depressed all the time just begs the question: Whose depression is hard to live with, his or mine?
Especially, considering I am on to very effective mood stabilzers, an anti-anxiety medication, medication for ADD, and an anti-depressant. That my sound like a lot, but believe me, my arsenal is much smaller than a lot of people with Bipolar. My psych believes in only as much medication is needed. So, I am finely tuned, I do not get manic, I do not really get depressed. I surf a low frequency sine wave. I have ups and downs just like everyone else, I have good and bad days just like everyone else.
All of which leads me back to my original question: Whose depression? Because it’s not mine.
is like being clubbed with a small rubber mallet. Your head hurts slightly, your legs don’t want to work, and you stumble into things like the wall that just moved. It is amazing how many things become animate when you are trying to walk while still asleep on this stuff, plants, walls, doorways, all kinds of stuff. Seriously, though, even though this is one whopper of an atypical anti-psychotic, it has been my “magic pill.”
I learned the hard way that I am not supposed to mess around with this medication. It started as a gentle slide, the slope so miniscule that I could not even see the train wreck that was coming. It is notorious for helping people gain weight as well as controlling mania. So, my doctor and I dropped the dose from 600 mg at night to 400 mg at night, and added Adderall to my daily regimen of medications (I do actually have ADD, so Adderall wasn’t an arbitrary addition to help me lose weight.) Adderall, on the other hand, taken with a cup of joe, will wake you up faster that being smacked upside the face with the same rubber mallet. Anyway , thus began the slow, ever so slow descent in the rabbit hole otherwise known as major depressive episode, madness whatever you wan to call it, and I ended up in bed for a week not bathing, not eating, and a big one for me, not washing my hair. I have this thing about clean hair. I have given my self excruciating headaches washinc it in mountain rivers. It was the not washing my hair that clued me into what had happened; depression had snuck on me. Another thing you apparently can’t do without caffeine while hungover from Seroquel is type. At any rate, that depression landed me in the hospital for a week with a bunch of other people some of whom had much worse problems than I hope to ever have. More coffee….
Okay, have more coffee, yea! Once the doctors raised the Seroquel back to its normal 600 mg, I had no more problems except we increased the Adderall. Adderall is speed. For some reason people with ADD respond differently to stimulants than their normal counterparts. Back to Seoquel and the little mallet. Seroquel seems to have eproved to something of a wonder drug for those in the Bipolar community, it can stop a mania that is happening, and it can prevent occurrences of mania. If it were for those shifting objects, and the little rubber mallet, i would agree. But, seriously, it has far fewer side effects than anything I have been prescribed.
Okay, since my writing prompt book says that one of the goals this month is to dig deeper into the emotion(s) of the subject you are writing about, here we go again. I have been suffering from a depressive episode fro about 3 or 4 weeks now. It has a life of its own. Some days, it gives me a gentle reprieve, and I do not feel like cutting off my head. Other days, it attacks full force leaving me curled in a ball in bed, not bathing, not washing my hair, not wanting or needing to talk to anyone, and wanting to cut my heart out of my chest. It is the only way I can see out. Dying. There is no other way. The depression, however, is so paralyzing, so bone-crushing that just breathing requires concentrated effort. Opening my eyes is like lifting weights at the gym with some sadistic personal trainer. So, dying is out of the question because it would involve effort and energy I just do not have.
Depression like this is debilitating, you can’t work, you can’t read, you can only sleep so much before your body says enough, so then you are awake and in mental traction, just shifting position is impossible.
The reprieves are wonderful. You are still depressed, but you can do stuff like breathe without thinking about it first, open and close your eyes with little effort, your brain doesn’t think your whole body is in traction. It is almost like being normal again……except, now you have the energy to do the one thing you can’t do when under the spell of bone-crushing depression. Die. Fortunately, I made a vow to the Universe about 4 years ago that I could not do that. So, dying is out of the question. Which is not to say that when things get really rough, I do not think about it.
Bipolar is a scary disease. It is chronic and progressive meaning it will not get better with time. It gets worse. The episodes get closer together. Unless you are very careful, you will lose friends, family and lovers as they are the ones you lash out at. And, they so not deserve it. I have decided on a new project. It is called: “Think first open mouth second.” Maybe that will alleviate some of what I have been going through with my significant other.
I would like another diagnosis, please. I absolutely hate having manic depression. I never know how I am going to feel when I wake up in the morning. Some days I just want to stay in bed for days. I forget to bathe, wash my hair, and the thought of even attempting household chores is overwhelming. I never know when I am going to say something hurtful, or inappropriate given the nature of the situation. I feel as if I overreact to simple problems. Quite frankly, this illness scares me. I never know when an episode, either manic or, more often, depressive is going to occur. I am usually well into the episode before I recognize it for what it is.
I think too much about how my emotions would go away if I were just able to build up the cowardice to end my life. But, I can’t do that. I have seen firsthand the effects that death by suicide cause in a family. When I was about 25, my then fiance’s sister committed suicide. The family was never the same. Everyone blamed someone else for not recognizing the warning signs. They were all there, mental illness, anorexia, alcoholism. But none the less, her father blamed her mother, her mother secretly blamed herself, her brother blamed both his parents and his dead sister. Everyone felt guilty that they hadn’t been able to stop her, but she had taken all the pills she took in the early morning while she was drunk and everyone was asleep. She said nothing until around noon, and by then it was too late, her mother and I took her to the nearest ER, and she couldn’t walk, stand alone, or function. She could not breathe on her own and was put on a respirator. She died around 8:30 that night when the aspirin she took finally stopped her heart. So, that option is a non-option even with the issues I have had as of late.
So, yes, I would like a new diagnosis. This bipolar thing does not work for me. It makes me angry that I am set apart from so-called normal people just because my emotions fluctuate differently, and often, irrationally. It makes me sad because I used to be so functional, or so I thought. I probably was just stuck in delusion of efficacy in my life. Now, I have to have structure in my life: sleep at the same time every night, regular feedings, stable people (who can tolerate me). I have to be able to tolerate myself. When I was a teenager, it was much easier, I could chalk the mood swings up to hormonal changes. Now, I have no excuse. I have been labeled mentally ill, and it is up to me to manage my illness.
Being labeled pisses me off too. It is not like am Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: then I would have a completely different label. Honestly the whole thing about being labeled mentally ill just creates a bunch of misconceptions: you have to walk on eggshells around me (no you don’t, just give it to me straight, am going to like or dislike what you say regardless of bipolar), everything I do stems from illness (no, it does not. Sometimes I am happy or sad or angry or whatever because that is how I am feeling at the moment), the illness runs my life (no, it does not normally run my life except when I am experiencing an episode). So may misconceptions. They make me angry, sad that people shy away from me, lonely, feeling abandoned, neglected, and truly unwanted.
Having a “mental” illness is so much different than having a “physical” illness like heart disease, or renal failure. For some reason people are less afraid of people suffering with medical problems. But, often, mental illness is medical and lies in a chemical imbalance in the brain. Once the right combinations of medications are found, and the person afflicted has a good therapist, and, in my opinion, a firm grounding in a faith that suits them, symptoms often fade and do not recur as often.
I sincerely believe that the “de-institutionalization” movement that started in the 1960’s has had an extremely deleterious effect on how people with mental illnesses are
The Madhouse (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
treated and viewed by society. Many of those who were completely stable in the rigidly regulated hospital environment were released to promised community mental health clinics. In most cases, these clinics were never built, so many psychotic people or people predisposed to psychosis were released on to the streets of the communities near the hospitals. They were not being treated at community clinics, and the wonder drug, Thorazine, was proving to be less than wonderful. It made the patient sluggish and had horrible side effects. So, people stopped taking it, and within days were psychotic again. Now that they are psychotic, and out of touch with the reality of their illness, are they going to know to seek treatment? No, because to them, their world is reality. So, they remain psychotic. Many state laws makes it impossible to involuntarily commit a mentally ill person, they have the right to refuse treatment. As a result, when many people think of mental illness, they think of the people who are homeless, and walk around having conversations with themselves (or they could be on their bluetooth, it is hard to distinguish these days 🙂 ).
Any way, enough of my ranting and raving over the state of affairs for the mentally ill in this culture. I do that on a regular basis. But it just seems to me that we, as a culture, are afraid of the term “mental illness,” when in fact when properly treated, most people can live productive lives. This is not to say that symptoms can’t arise, usually as a result of stress, and wreak some havoc. But, for the treated individual, this is far less likely to happen. most people know someone who has a mental illness, and is probably hiding it to avoid the stigma that goes with the label. It is the costume of normalcy that we are forced to wear, and I for one, can’t stand that. I have Manic Depression and that is what I have to deal with daily. I really wish more people would come out of their normalcy suits, and tell the world they have a mental illness, but this is who I really am. I am not my illness. My illness is just one part of me and who I am. Then, stigma would begin to reduce as more and more “normal” people realize they know someone with a mental illness. There are millions of us.
I recently finished a memoir entitled Manic: A Memoir written by a woman named Terrie Cheney. Her experience with mental illness, manic depression to be specific, landed her in jail where she was denied her phone call to her attorney for almost 6 hours, was denied access to her medication (which she carried with her), and she was starting to cycle into full blown mania. So, they kept her locked in a cell for several hours at a time, and finally moved her to a “private” holding cell because she was so disruptive. While in jail, she was badly beaten by a female guard who was trying to “subdue” her, however, she was attempting to subdue her with a nightstick. She was in jail for 14 hours growing more and more manic with each hour. She asked for her meds, they wouldn’t give them to her, they gave her sporadic access to the phone, and basically, treated her as if she were on something. If they had payed any attention at all, they would’ve realized, she wasn’t on something, she was off something; the medications that helped bring her down. She finally reaches her attorney, and is released. She, was very lucky, however. She could afford the high priced attorney. She was a high priced attorney herself.
Another instance of Bipolar mania had her convinced that her car was stronger than the tree in her yard, and so she drove into it. Totaling her car landed her in a psychiatric facility. That was one time. Another included the swallowing of handfuls of benzodiazepines, and stelazine while she was trying to work up the nerve and get rid of the anxiety she felt over telling her father that his cancer had spread; he had only months to live. She overdosed on those pills, and her exterminator found her on the floor barely conscious. When she awoke she was in four point restraints, and had to use the bathroom. A doctor and a bunch of residents came in to her padded room, and tried to convince her that she had attempted suicide. She hadn’t consciously done so, and she told the doctor she really needed to pee. He refused to let her until she admitted that she was suicidal. She did not believe that she was, and the doctor left without providing her with even a bedpan; she ended up peeing on herself. A nurse came in and changed the sheets, but left her on the urine soaked mattress, all the while berating her for doing what she had done. In order to get off that mattress and out of the padded cell, she finally told the doctor what he wanted to hear; yes she had tried to kill herself, but, no she wasn’t currently suicidal. The whole time she was in that room they kept her sedated with the “conventional” anti-psychotic haldol. This was only part of the experience of a manic depressive of means. Can you imagine how the down and out homeless are treated?
I am now reading a book titled Crazy: A Father’s Search Through America’s Mental Health Madness. His son experiences a psychotic break in his senior year of college. His son is in his late teens/early twenties when most mental illness will present in the form of a psychotic episode, a manic episode, or a severe depressive episode. (For my self, it was a severe depressive episode unlike any I had previously experienced; something was very wrong). His son is given the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder and put on anti-psychotic medication which he refused to take calling it “poison.” His son was convinced there were secret messages hidden in signs and movies, particularly Oliver Stone’s Heaven and Earth. His parents tried to have him held in a psychiatric facility after having taken him to the emergency room. They were told nothing could be done because he was an adult, and he had the right to refuse treatment if he so chose, that that was the law. He couldn’t be forced to take medication, not could he be forced into a mental health facility. It was only after he was arrested for breaking into a neighbor’s house and taking a bubble bath that he was taken to a psychiatric unit on a 72 hour hold. He could, however, still refuse treatment. So, his behavior became more and more odd. His father came up with the idea that since he had been arrested it proved he was not safe; that he was, in fact, a danger to himself and others. The argument worked. His son was being charged with two felonies in relation to the break-in. So, he took his medication for a couple of days, and got sort of right in the head. The idea was that he would be booked on charges but then released to his parents so he could continue the day program he was in. The only stipulation was that he had to continue his medication and the program, and he could plead to one felony count. What was unfortunate about this was that the state Law of Virginia prohibited ex felons to work at specific jobs, and one of them was the occupation his son had just finished school for. So, all his hard work in college was washed away in the blink of the eye known as mental illness.
His parents managed to get him to voluntarily commit himself after being put in a mental hospital following another episode (he still wouldn’t take the medicine that he considered poison; his father even tried hiding it in his food). There was even a commitment hearing which was a joke because the longest they could hold him for as a voluntary patient was five days after which he could walk right back out. His insurance company was after the hospital to release him because once stabilized all their little charts and graphs said that he could continue his recovery at home or in an outpatient program. Don’t even get me going on the HMO’s in this country who play God and Doctor, and decide what the patient needs which commonly overrides the doctor and even plain common sense. I could go on for hours on that subject. His father, a well known journalist called the insurance company that was trying to kick his son out of the hospital, and informed that he used to work for the Washington Post, knew Mike Wallace, and that he would be calling both to do an expose on their company policy regarding mental health. The insurance company backed off.
All of this prompted his father to begin looking into what really happens to the mentally ill in this country, and what he found is not pretty. He began calling around to different courts and jails to find out what the laws were in that state. He finally settled in a section of Miami where there was a judge that was active in the Mental Health reform movement, and met the psychiatrist at the local jail which housed quite a few mentally ill inmates. He states in his book that it took the doctor approximately 19 minutes to do rounds and talk to all the people considered suicide risks. There were 92 people on the psychiatric floor. The author writes: “That was 12.7 seconds per inmate.”
Around the turn of the 20th century, the mentally ill were housed in a similar manner. Naked, or with nothing more than rags for clothes, they were held in the jails and
prisons often with far more people than a cell can hold. A reform movement began after a woman named Dorothea Dix saw this for herself and began a movement to build State Mental Hospitals. The states responded under pressure to do exactly that. However, conditions in the hospitals were not much better than the jails and prisons. The movement continued until some left wingers thought that the conditions in the hospital were so horrific that as long as these patients were stabilized, why couldn’t they be released back into society? Bless the left wingers, they really thought they were doing a good thing by releasing these patients. So began the de-institutionalization movement, and the state hospitals began to shut down. This was in the early 1960’s.
Well, guess what happens when a mentally ill patient forgets to take their medication? The destabilize. They become incapable of holding a job, having a home, taking meds on a regular basis, etc. They do not know they are sick again. This lands them in the streets, homeless and ill, where they are picked up usually for some minor infraction, but sometimes for more serious offenses. We are back where we started; housing the mentally ill in our jails and prisons. And the laws permit this by not requiring more hospitalization, the HMO’s are complicit in that they start asking that people be released after a couple of days on an inpatient ward. They figure using their little graphs and charts that it takes about that long to “stabilize” someone. I know from personal experience, it takes a hell of a lot longer than that. And, that is if the patient is med compliant.
I could go on and on and on about how this country treats the mentally ill. The politicians and HMO’s would never dare deny a heart patient access to medical care, nor would they not allow a diabetic their insulin. So, what the bleep makes mental health such a huge freaking issue? Is it because it involves the brain? Is it because people are inherently afraid of “going nuts?” We are not nuts, crazy, bonkers or any of those lovely terms that are used to describe someone with an organic, medically treatable disease. Manic Depression, Schizophrenia, Schizoaffective Disorder, all of these are treatable and people who are treated can become functioning members of society. So, we are a little different than the average person. Who gives a flying F&*^! The mentally ill should be treated with the same respect and dignity as everyone else. There are a whole host of people some famous and others not so much who have suffered from or do suffer from some mental illness. This country recognizes alcoholism and drug abuse as treatable diseases, so what’s up with the mentally ill being so scary? I had better stop. I am getting angry.
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