Advice arrives...

Thirty-seven years too late.

I received this missive in the mail yesterday and laughed out loud. The marketing team for this home insurance company probably thought this tagline innocuous, but with my storied history, my mind went beyond failing appliances. Breakdowns for me mean something else all together.

Just this weekend, while doing some journaling homework for therapy, I had an epiphany. I had long bought in to the fiction that I had a genetic chemical imbalance which caused my bipolar affective disorder. My care team, consisting of various psychologists and psychiatrists over three decades, all concurred. If we could only get the meds right, balance would be restored and all would be well. Better living through chemistry was the mantra.

I don’t doubt the efficacy of certain medicines to smooth the loops of the highs and the lows and to help induce sleep. I’ll give them their due. But asking drugs alone to stop the charging bull of mania is wishful thinking. And a fallacy I dutifully believed throughout most of my adult life.

Now that I’m finally seeing real relief, under the care of an exceptional therapist, a new world has opened. I haven’t fully processed this new information, so I won’t pontificate my findings beyond a couple of observations.

First, it’s time to let Grandma off the hook. My beloved grandmother had a multitude of reasons for her mental health difficulties. Poverty, overwhelm, nine children, an adulterous husband, and an amazing, underutilized intellect all contributed to her being hospitalized many times. She had plenty of meds but not a day’s worth of therapy to help her sort things out. She carried the shame of her schizophrenic misdiagnosis to her death at fifty-two. Her mental illness was noted by my first psychiatrist as the leading indicator that I had followed suit.

Second, the crucible that I began my marriage with was, unbeknownst to me, a perfect recipe for mental instability. I needed someone to talk through my feelings of fear, ambivalence, immaturity and adulting too abruptly. I kept my feelings to myself for eight years until the lid blew off with a major manic episode at twenty-eight.

Now that I officially identify as elderly, I’ve come to realize the power and agency of quality psychotherapy when it comes to combatting bipolar disorder. When the meds failed to stop the manic episodes, I had nowhere else to turn. I was in therapy, medically compliant, and yet the symptoms took over. Now, my therapist and I are breaking down and challenging the beliefs that mania is inevitable.

Sleep hygiene is my first priority. Staying up until the wee hours is no longer a part of my routine. Bingeing television shows or any overuse of screen time is also out. I take my mood stabilizers nightly to keep my temperament steady. But the work I’ve done in the past two and a half years, including EMDR, has made a world of difference. It’s opened my eyes to a realm where I have insight now. There are elements in my life I can work on and I have control over.

I’ve stumbled, even with my newfound revelations about why mania keeps haunting me. I’m making progress in a way that has eluded me for decades. I hate being cryptic, but I also don’t want to get too specific and drag you into my therapy. Suffice to say, it involves challenging long held beliefs about self-worth.

It has been an arduous journey, this path of mental illness. In some ways, it feels like I’ve been training for the Olympics. Grueling workouts but instead of competing, the goal is to stay out of the hospital. I’m coming up on ten months of cogent living, and I really want to keep that clock ticking.

Two weeks ago, I was in Vancouver, British Columbia. My husband and I drove up to Whistler and found these rings from the 2010 Olympic Winter Games. They were a sweet reminder to keep going and to go for the gold. A life of stability and sanity is my goal.

I know not everyone has access to a good therapist. I’ve come to believe it’s the best modality of treatment for me. If you aren’t getting the results you seek, keep searching for a better fit. I settled for years thinking, “This is as good as it gets.” I was wrong and going nowhere, except back to the hospital.

I wish you all a wonderful weekend. Take good care of yourselves.

Colleen