I once thought I had severe clinical depression. My counselors thought I had. My friends thought I had. My family was of that opinion, too. I had always suffered from it, from early childhood, but my miscarriage and the subsequent death of my mother triggered it into a serious mental disorder. I could barely brush my hair, I could scarcely function, I only went anywhere when my husband, family or friends dragged me out somewhere. I managed to semi-control it with meditation and related disciplines, but I still found myself basically at others’ beck and call.
One summer in the mid to late 80s, I decided my depression was growing worse. My grandparents (who were very dear to me) were dying and I was their chief caregiver. I determined that I needed to boost my moods a bit. Being New Agey and too dumb at the time to see a real shrink, I picked up a book called “The Way Up from Down” which is a thoroughly helpful little primer for people with true unipolar depression. It related the problem of sugar-related depression. It also provided a vitamin regimen to be taken — tyrosine and L-tryptophan (this was before the recall) and various other things. At first, I felt TERRIFIC! I was functioning again, I wrote again, I was swept into a fandom for the first time in years, I even had my hair styled.
Then came the crash. And when I crashed, I CRASHED BADLY.
The paranoia was the worst of it, followed by my normally shy, very reserved self starting to act inappropriately. I once dreamed an entire interview with an actor and found it so persuasive at an auditory level that I believed it had actually happened. It took seeing a whole contradictory interview to challenge that belief. I was also moderately delusional at times. People to whom I’d been useful no longer considered me useful — I have to admit I was probably slightly annoying. To be fair, they were not psychiatrists and didn’t realize I was, in fact, hypomanic, so they assumed I had gone nuts or they conceived some other explanation. I finally broke off contacts with all but a few of my friends. It was, in fact, the best thing I could have done.
You see, to a misdiagnosed bipolar 2 sufferer, taking that vitamin regimen was comparable to giving crack to a kangaroo. Hypomania expresses itself differently than mania — the hypomania often is expressed in anger, frustration, grudges, obsessions, etc. BP2 don’t have the classic “I feel divine!” types of mania that BP1 sufferers (the ones most often cited in media) do.
From the clinical history, I can look back now and see I have the primary signs of bipolar disease in my family. My mother died of alcoholism, her grandfather died of alcoholism, depression of various forms runs through my family, and the list goes on.
I know there will be people who are shocked that I’m discussing this openly. Sadly, even in a modern age, bitches and bastards still use mental illness to demean their fellow humans. They can’t call someone a “whore” anymore, unless they’re a psychotic talk show host, so they resort to snotty rejoinders about “craziness”. The fact of the matter is I trust MOST the people who’ve had a diagnosis like this. I know they are being medicated. I know they are aware. It’s the unmedicated people who scare the shit out of me.
I am now seventeen years on medication. I have good days and bad days. Am I as creative? Probably not, but I’m much more productive. And I have something that is more important than anything to those of us who have experienced life without it — peace of mind.
Next time, more about bipolar and the writing mind
