The Bipolar Burble welcomes guest Karen Tyrell. Karen is an Australian mental health advocate and author of the new mental health memoir Me & Her: A Memoir of Madness.
Today Karen shares a little about her life and the place writing has had in her bipolar disorder recovery.
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I woke up one morning in 1994 crushed with depression. The first thing I thought of that morning was how much I wanted to kill myself, and if I couldn’t do that, then how much I wanted to hurt myself. I kept cutting implements and bandages near my bed just in case the feelings were too much to bear.
Of course, this was like every morning of my 16-year-old life. I was depressed, but I didn’t know it. I only knew that I wanted to die. I needed to die. I needed it like most people needed breath. And I knew that no one understood.
My home life was one of the things driving me to depression and granting me the leanings of suicide. Things there were a hellish nightmare of screaming and hate. And the people related to me and forced to love me gave me no consolation whatsoever as I was sure that they didn’t. These people hated me and wanted me gone every bit as much as I did.
This was, at least partially, my depression talking, but I didn’t know it then. I didn’t know what depression was and I didn’t know how loudly it spoke.
So I found myself in my car trying to drive anywhere away from there. Away from the nexus of crazy. So I drove to the only place that I knew would have me – to the house of my rapist.
As is most often the case my sexual abuse was complicated. And while I hated what this man in his 40s did to me the one thing I couldn’t live without was his love. He would tell me he loved me. This was undoubtedly a lie but convinced as I was that no one else did, that my life was worthless and that I should die, that one sliver of love offered by a minion of Satan made me keep breathing.
I arrived at his house to find him not home – away, undoubtedly grooming other little lovelies for his nest. So I did the only thing I could think to do, I curled up on a square of cement near his front steps and went to sleep weeping – an attempt to escape the world that was trying to kill me.
This is a picture of a girl in crisis. A girl so tightly wound in the grasp of depression that she can see no way of dealing with it at all. A girl so desperate to feel anything but the pain of mental illness she was prepared to put her body and her soul in harm’s way just to not feel like death was upon her for one brief moment in time.
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I’m on Twitter. Not a surprise there. And I have a pretty active following there. Most of the people are fans, but a few aren’t. A few quite disagree with me and what I have to say. Which is fine. People can have their views.
And recently, I was tweeting along, minding my own business when someone said this to me:
and have you been on antidepressant, mind altering drugs all these years. Making choices while under the influence
My first reflex was to reply,
and have you been making choices all this time while being an ignorant, sanctimonious ass?
Sigh.
But I’ve heard through the grapevine that wouldn’t be professional. So I said nothing. If Mr. Twitter wants to judge me for taking medically prescribed medication, that’s his right. Even if it is a small-minded, uncompassionate, hateful thing to do.
And really, I have snarky answers for many of the asinine comments people make to me. However, I don’t tend to share them as it makes people all pissy. That being said, this particular comment hit a sore spot – being under the influence of brain-bending medications.
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Rarely, if ever, do people accuse me of having a lack of compassion for people with a mental illness. This is probably because I am a person with a mental illness so I kind of know where other mentally ill people are coming from.
Nevertheless, this is exactly what one commenter recently did:
This is a tragic post because the writer is incapable of honoring the struggle of a human being who is in pain. Rather than muster empathy, compassion and problem-solving, she shuts out the people who need her most. There is something wrong with America when families send their loved ones to prison or institutions when what they need most is the love and support of their community.
The commenter is referring to a post wherein I suggested that sometimes the right thing to do is to say goodbye to a person with a mental illness. Particularly in cases where a person is abusive and refuses to get help, sometimes walking away is the only thing left to do in order to protect your own life. I stand by this sentiment.
And for the record, I’m all for employing empathy, compassion and problem-solving in all aspects of life and of course when dealing with a mental illness. That’s why I’ve written about helping people with a mental illness and telling someone they have a mental illness and convincing someone to get help with a mental illness.But empathy, compassion and problem-solving have limits. None of us is superhuman. And people with a mental illness aren‘t the only ones deserving of compassion.
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Continued from part one of How to Tell Someone They Have a Mental Illness.
Thirdly, I recommend printing out information about the disorder for the person. There are plenty of resources online that will tell you the basics about a disorder and if you have this information ready, the person with the illness doesn’t have to go searching for it. Books are another good option. But know the person with the mental illness may use this information in dribs and drabs as information overload is a real possibility and will help no one.
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When someone has a mental illness it can be very difficult for them to see it. The very nature of a brain illness is such that the brain itself has a hard time recognizing it. We are often so wrapped up in the symptoms that we can’t see that what we’re really suffering from is an illness and not just a bad day, bad week or bad month. This is to say nothing of anosognosia, the clinical condition wherein people don’t possess the insight necessary to understand that they are sick.
So sometimes the people around us are the ones that realize we’re sick before we do. Sometimes it’s our loved ones that can clearly see a pattern of behavior that goes beyond unusual into pathological.
But if you know someone who you suspect has a mental illness, how do you tell them?
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In the book I’m writing on electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) I’ve had to address the question as to how ECT works. However, in spite of the fact that ECT has been in use since the 1930s we really don’t know how ECT works.
But recently we may have gotten a bit closer to figuring it out.
Read MoreOne of the criticisms antipsychiatry folks like to make of psychiatry is its lack of objective diagnostic criteria. In other words, there’s no blood test that says you have bipolar disorder or schizophrenia.
And this is true. While today we do have blood tests for biological markers indicative of mental illness diagnosis, there is no hard and fast test that can diagnose a psychiatric disorder (except Huntington’s, for which we have discovered a gene).
The fact of the matter is no matter what is written in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) or what blood we draw or which scans we do nothing diagnoses a person properly except a trained psychiatric professional.
But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing objective or meaningful about it.
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Let me share a little secret with you – I don’t agree with all mental health treatment. I don’t agree with all the decisions doctors make. I don’t like all the available treatments. I have had very bad experiences with some mental health treatments. I have had some very bad experiences with mental health care professionals.
But I still talk about them. And I still think they are right for some people.
Why?
Because my story isn’t your story.
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