Today's post was originally going to be about my favorite song, and what makes a favorite song so special. While I still do want to write about that, I'm feeling a bit more passionate about something else at the moment, so I decided to postpone.
Bipolar Disorder is a monumentally misunderstood disease. I hear my students refer to other teachers or administrators they don't like as Bipolar, I hear people on tv throw around the term like it's some sort of character flaw borne out of personal weakness. I understand that most people who pull out the term as a cheap insult mean no disrespect to the 6 million or so people in this country living with some version of the disease; it's an easy attack - like calling something "gay" or "retarded". And like using the words "gay" or "retarded" as synonyms for "stupid", using "bipolar" to describe someone who is angry or whose rationale for a given decision or action may seem inexplicable to you is harmful to the general widespread understanding and acceptance of the condition.
In the interests of full disclosure, I'm Bipolar.
In November 2007, I spent about a week in the mental health facility attached to Rockingham Memorial Hospital going to group therapy sessions, speaking individually with psychiatrists and counselors, and generally trying to get myself right to go on with my life in a healthier and more productive way. I suppose it worked - I haven't had a major episode of either mania or depression since my time there. However, when I think about the 5 days I spent at RMH, what I think of is not any of the meetings, lessons, or coping techniques that I learned to deal with my disease - I think of the people I met.
There were usually about 10 of us in the room at any given time, though some people sort of came and went, and every single person in there had Bipolar Disorder. A few had other issues as well - PTSD, addiction troubles, OCD - but nearly all of the problems in that room stemmed directly from Manic Depression. It's been almost 3 years since I have seen any one of the people I met there, but I still think about them from time to time and hope that they are doing alright.
The thing about Bipolar Disorder (and the main reason why you shouldn't accuse that woman who got a little bit snippy with you in line at the grocery store of having it) is that it really affects the sufferer's life. I'm talking life-changing, can't-be-the-person-you-want-to-be, every-day-is-marred-with-the-footprint-of-disease kind of effects here.
One of the patients in those sessions - let's call her Kate - had just gotten back from a mania-fueled bender to New York, where she spent every dime she had without any recollection of how she had gotten there, who she had seen, or what she had done. The only thing she had to remember the trip by was a new tattoo on her arm (luckily, she told us, she kind of liked it). Kate had a Master's degree in Criminal Justice, and wanted more than anything to be involved in law enforcement, but due to her condition it is illegal for her to ever be in possession of a gun. She was looking into options within the federal prison system that might work for her, but she could never be a police officer like she had wanted to be her whole life.
Another patient - James, for today - was a football player who had come at the request of his coach. You could see on his face that he was uncomfortable with the thought of having a label put on him that might make him seem weak or unable to deal with his problems. When he spoke, it was clear that the social stigmas associated with mental illness weighed heavily on him and made dealing with his issues even more stressful and unmanageable than they were already. The facilitators of the sessions tried hard to convince him that there was nothing wrong with accepting his condition; that he could deal with it more effectively and be a happier person in general if he treated it like what it was, a disease. James left after a couple of days without receiving much help.
Two more patients were local women. One worked at the Wal-Mart distribution center, the other as a receptionist at a tire-seller. Both were in the midst of months-long depressive episodes. It took every ounce of energy for them to get out of bed in the morning, and each of them complained of regular hours-long crying sessions at work. Their families tried to be supportive and help, but they didn't have the resources or knowledge to really make much of a difference. One of them said it was such a relief to be with other people who felt the same way, because then she knew it wasn't just her.
There was the abused teenaged mom. The day trader who worked on the internet because he couldn't reliably make it out of the house every weekday. The physics student who had been at JMU for over a decade because his illnesses kept necessitating leaves of absence.
The person I think about the most when I think back is a woman who I'll call Lynne here. Lynne showed up my third day in the facility, and we sat next to each other at every meal and every session until I left. It's a little bit strange: I can't remember much of what our conversations were about, just the feeling that we had each found a friend in that place. Lynne came from a relatively privileged background, and whatever her husband did seemed to bring home enough money for the two of them and their children to live comfortably, but she had had a very hard life. She had been raped twice, suffered the abuses of an alcoholic father, and lost a child when she was 7 months pregnant, forced to deliver his lifeless corpse anyway.
More destructive than any of those things though, I think, was the impression I got that no one took her or any of her troubles very seriously. From the time she was a teenager, everyone seemed to think "you're blonde and pretty and have money. What is there to be upset about?" For the short time I knew her, Lynne was experiencing what's called a Mixed State episode - Basically, she was simultaneously exhibiting signs of depression and mania. It's a hard and confusing way to live, more so when your husband doesn't understand or care and everyone you know is telling you that you should just be happy. Several times in the three day span I was with Lynne, she expressed a simple and earnest desire just to go back to the couple of years she spent in Charleston, SC while in college. It was the only time in her life that she was able to really look back on fondly, and her face and voice were different whenever she told me about it. She told me about how she goes back there for a week every summer, all alone, and it is always the best week of her year. She told me about how disappointed she was when she went with her husband once, and he complained the whole time. I listened to Lynne, and I made her laugh. She made me feel happy and comfortable and needed. To this day, I still get sad when I remember her face when I told her I was checking out, and exactly the way she said "but who will I talk to?" She sounded like a little girl then, and all I wanted to do was hold her forever.
I haven't seen, talked to, or in any way heard about any of the people I met since my time at RMH. I used to hope to run into Lynne or some of the others when I went back for my bi-weekly counseling sessions or when I saw the psychiatrist, but I never did.
Every single one of those patients were good people, and they all had hard lives. Much harder than mine. My professors let me slide on some things that I missed, my boss and my coworkers covered for me at my job, my friends were supportive and helpful. I, for the most part, have a handle on my condition and live a normal, fulfilling, and productive life. I'm lucky. But whenever I hear someone misappropriate the term "bipolar" or sling it like a joke, I think of the friends I made in a few days at RMH and all the troubles that they have gone through and survived. It makes me wish everyone could have experienced that and come through with as much more empathy and understanding for others as I did.
Some Links:
Wikipedia's Entry on Bipolar Disorder
A list of some of the many celebrities and historical figures who are bipolar
An article my cousin's husband wrote on a JMU student who killed herself as a result of her bipolar disorder
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