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“Sometimes it's as if I'm living in a dream I can't wake from. Sometimes I'm so high I could almost touch the sky. ” Pamela Filip |
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BOOK excerpt INTRODUCTION At times, Come close to me while you read my story. Come closer, and look inside my heart and mind. I will guide you ever so carefully, ever so gently through this tangled web I’ve been working my way out of. I will share some very personal events and details with you. I will show you what it’s like inside the world of mental illness. I have had schizoaffective bipolar type disorder and obsessive-compulsive behavior disorder (OCD) all my life. I fight a battle every day, a battle with my mother’s illness that is now my own. The bipolar disorder was not accurately diagnosed until 1991; the schizoaffective aspects and OCD were not diagnosed until 2000. When I learned about these illnesses, I realized that I had had them ever since I was a little girl. As I look back, I’m amazed at everything I have kept hidden away in the darkness. Or at least tried to. I didn’t really, truly understand what mental illness and compulsive behavior were all about until 1998. Now I know what vicious, yet amazing illnesses I have. As a child, I didn’t and couldn’t understand mental illness. Even as a teenager, I didn’t understand what was happening to me because no one who knew me could explain things. I was a grown woman before I understood the true meaning of mental illness. It has made me feel like I was never a baby, as though I literally walked out of my mama’s womb full-grown, with a whole world ahead of me that I already knew about. Looking back, I realize there was madness in me before I ever came into this world. In certain cases, I believe that the things we cannot remember often affect us the most. Thus, in researching my family and personal history, I strongly felt the need to go as far back in my childhood as I could. Although I do not have “recalled memories” of my own birth, nevertheless I truly believe some events surrounding my mother’s pregnancy and my delivery affect me to this day. I have used a technique to understand and calm myself—in my mind, I walk back into childhood and tell my own, small self, “It’s okay.” Many times in years past I couldn’t help but pray, “God, why did you let this gene pass to me? I didn’t ask for this illness. Why didn’t you give me cancer, TB, AIDS, or let me get raped? Why must I suffer from mental illness? Why didn’t you just give me a brain tumor instead, so I could get this miserable life over with? I mean, I’m halfway there. I’m already crazy.” This is exactly what I felt, so you all know I was hurting. I know one thing for sure. At least if I had gotten cancer or TB or AIDS, I would have had a “mind” to seek treatment. And although I can’t begin to describe rape, thank God, it seems that a person would have a “mind” to cope, especially if given quality attention and caring therapy. Compulsive behavior has made even the simplest, everyday actions, such as prayer, very difficult. Because I believe that I might not have said or done something just right, I keep repeating actions until my brain tells me it’s okay to stop. Through the course of my gaining an understanding of this illness, there were many, many times I wished I had anything else humanly possible to have. I do not mean to make light of the horrible, frightening, and painful illnesses or events others suffer. In fact, I suspect they probably feel the same way about their situations as I do about mine. An individual’s environment, background, family medical history, and personal situation—such as menopause, stress or other trauma—can very well bring on mental problems. Through my research, I learned that the chemical serotonin plays a very important role in the brain’s function but is not the only factor related to how I behave. Due to a chemical imbalance, for years I never even realized I had a problem nor felt a need to seek help. If I didn’t have knowledge of the signs and symptoms, how could I know what to look for? Finding the right doctor can be a task in itself. They are not all alike, of course, and it’s a good idea to do your homework before contacting a doctor. You may find yourself going through a few doctors before you find the right one for you, as I did. Do some research on your illness, so you’re not just taking the doctor at his word and thus placing yourself at his/her mercy. Do not say things that are untrue about the way you feel just to please the doctor. Remember—you are there so he/she can help you. Dishonesty can bring double trouble for you, the patient, by making it hard for a good doctor to make the proper diagnosis. There is also something to be said about doctor-patient confidentiality. When I first met my doctor, I was a little hesitant to tell him everything I was feeling because I didn’t know what he would do. Then, when I did tell him all I was feeling, I remember saying in a humorous sort of way, “I don’t want you to call the cops on me!” And believe me, I was very serious! I wasn’t being dishonest. I just held back until I had tested the waters. I felt much assured knowing that my doctor understood that my homicidal and suicidal feelings were normal for patients. As a whole, my feelings are not so uncommon as you would think. It is equally essential to do your homework and to seek reputable, professional counseling. Remember—it’s your brain! Years ago, the lack of knowledge about mental illness and its treatment was an issue in itself. For that reason alone, I often wondered if treating the patient by means of quality therapy and checking medication levels even existed. I was curious. Just for my own edification, I went through the process of obtaining my mother’s mental health records from the facility where she was institutionalized in the early 1960s. I do not know if the electric shock treatments really helped her, although she swore they did. I do know she suffered from short-term memory loss and later in life suffered complications such as liver problems resulting from taking too much Thorazine for too many years. In addition, over the years, both my mama and I received the following sampling of advice and admonitions that still rattle through my mind on occasion.
Some of the above has a lot of good advice in it, but there’s no sense in any of us fooling ourselves. This illness is more than just waking up on the wrong side of the bed and having a bad day, more than just accidentally putting the sugar bowl in the freezer. Because of all those years I was lost, I find myself sympathetic to anyone who suffers from mental illness. Ever since I finally realized I needed help and got it, I have had some idea of what others are going through and feel we have somewhat of a bond. Often while driving around town, I will see mentally ill people stumbling along the street and think to myself, Look at them. They are somebody’s son or daughter, father or mother, uncle or aunt, or maybe even a long-lost husband or wife. May God help them find their way. Whenever I think I’ve hit a really bad patch, I attend a support group meeting and always discover that someone there is in worse shape than I am. The more I have learned about mental illness and bipolar disorder, the more I realize everyone’s experience with it is different. Many people still walk around in darkness, trying to deal with the symptoms without even knowing what’s wrong. It’s a shame. And it’s sad in this day of scientific advances, in such a great country as America, with so many intellectuals, who possess so much knowledge, that anyone would keep this illness a secret and suffer because of the lingering stigma associated with it. In spite of the number of books that have been written on bipolar disorder, I have found that few of these publications deal with Blacks and bipolar disease. I was strongly convinced there was a need for just such a book. More importantly, I felt a tugging in my heart, what I presently know to be my true calling, to examine my own life and situation, society in general, and my own African-American culture and then tell my story. So I asked myself, Why do I really want to write this book? My answer was, I want people who read about my experiences to understand this illness better and to be motivated to get some positive help for themselves or their family members. I hope African Americans and Hispanics will learn more about this devastating illness because minorities are the most misdiagnosed group of people. It’s time for them to come out of their closets and try to get on the road to sanity. I also hope that those deemed normal who read this book will try at the very least to understand mental illness without prejudice. If I reach even one person through telling my story, then my efforts with this book will not have been in vain. Can anyone do this? Yes. You pay attention to yourself. Watch and listen to yourself. Check your mood swings. If you can, try keeping a journal. Trust yourself to know when you’re not feeling like yourself, so you can seek professional help. Realize that this illness can jeopardize any person’s life no matter what race or circumstance, whether it involves your personal life directly or indirectly. People will talk about me whether I have an illness or not. For those who have laughed and talked heartlessly about me and others who suffer from mental illness—I can’t tell you to put this book down because we have all been guilty of such behavior in one form or another. I can only pray that one day they will be granted understanding. After being cut very deeply by such behavior, I have learned that a sense of humor can turn away the most hurtful words or attitude in a hurry. As long as I am in a state to realize what is happening, I can respond appropriately. For me to live and especially for me to write this book without a sense of humor would have been impossible. But I would not impose that burden on some of the other people here. I have presented some people who appear in this book as composite characters to protect their privacy. Some things that I have included will make my own brothers and sisters say to themselves and each other, “I didn’t know she felt that way” or “I never knew she went through that.” And I did hesitate about including certain subjects. All the events I relate are real, and I’m not ashamed of any experiences I have had. While working on this book, I would stay up all hours of the night and write. I have always had insomnia. At times, I would look at the clock and be amazed at how fast the time had passed. I would get my daughter ready for school in the mornings, and after she left, I would start writing and write until she came home. Sometimes I wouldn’t even stop for a break because I would be so involved in what I was writing. I ate, slept and drank this book project. I was and am passionate about it. My present husband would come home from work, see me writing and say, “Honey, write in the daytime. You’re burning too much electricity.” That really brought back a lot of memories from my childhood. I thank God for being able to stay at home so I could finish this book. My husband and I decided I would not work at this time, so I would not have to deal with the stress of that and driving back and forth in addition to working on the book. Besides, driving is not something I do on a regular basis. Certain medications I take for my illness slow down my perception, and a few bizarre incidents have occurred while I was driving that were a bit much for me to handle, which I will discuss later on at greater length. But the most rewarding reason for me to stay home is so I can spend quality time with my daughter. As I wrote about my life, I experienced every human emotion possible. I cried. I got angry. At times, I would throw up both hands and yield as I cleaned my internal house—some of my experiences had been shut away for a long time. My writing style is direct, from the heart, in layman’s terms, so every reader can understand what I’m saying. All I ask is that you try, just try to understand me. Thank you. |
