The stigma attached to psychiatric disorders reminds me of other assumptions we make in our daily lives because we do not know or understand the truth. We believe the speculations passed down to us for generations. We are told that “Cops love coffee and donuts.” Who doesn’t? But what about the diabetic cops? Or the cops trying to avoid sugar for other reasons? The cops who direly need to stay away from caffeine for health concerns? There are always exceptions. The same goes for mental illness. Everyone struggles with the donuts they are dealt. Many people experience trauma that sticks with them throughout their whole lives. Some experience stomach aches full of dread for indiscernible reasons.
Mental illness comes in different forms, as various as donut flavors. My flavor is Schizoaffective Disorder. It is a combination of Schizophrenia and Bipolar I Disorder, a chocolate covered donut with cream filling. I would not change that part of my being, much like I would not change my donut preference. There is nothing wrong with that flavor or any other, just a difference in taste. Figuratively, this donut burden is something I carry with me every day.
I have accepted my truth, with the hope that others will no longer be afraid to step out of the shadows with their donuts. I find it more aesthetically pleasing to speak about mental illness in a soft, positive and metaphorical way. I often personify my mental illness and have named him “Berman.” Today, he represents donuts of every flavor. I no longer see my “differences” as a curse, but as a blessing. I strive to distance others from their “curse,” and to see the upside. Many people have mental illness. Many people have a favorite donut flavor, which describes their situation. What’s your flavor?
When I was little, my dream job was to be an author and illustrator. I wrote short stories as a kid, and published a few poems in high school. Now, I am a published author and illustrator and have accomplished my childhood aspirations. As an adolescent I was shy, sensitive, quiet, and mostly private with my emotions. Behind closed doors I was often irritable, angry and depressed, until it was time to sleep and the tears rolled down my face. I rarely smiled in public, but my family saw me for who I truly was and I am so grateful for each member. I lived and laughed and adventured. I didn’t know why I was crying, or where the stomach aches and dread came from. I was more often a happy kid with amazing parents and wonderful sisters who always had my back. So where did these tears originate?
I suppose that because I speak freely; I jump from one thought train to the next; and I never run out of words; I am able to write down the details that form instantly with the tap of my fingers on the keys. I used to write it all down on college ruled paper, not the typed words readily produced by a computer and printer. There was not a computer at my disposal. Write it down. That is what I used to do. Then there was the typewriter. The unpublished children’s books I wrote and illustrated as a child were pieced together and illustrated with my sister’s help. I would write it all down, page by page as the ideas flowed effortlessly from my mind onto the paper. My little sister, Kimberly, would sit with me in my room and we would read the stories I wrote. She has always been thoughtful, generous and kind. She has one of the most active, vivid imaginations I have seen in my life. She helped with creative suggestions for the illustrations. Kimberly became a reader, writer, artist, and high school English teacher when she grew up. I was not surprised. I suspect she is correcting my grammar and punctuation right now.
Writing and illustrating have always been so important to me. Art is my world. It is easier to understand a puzzle or stumbling block when I create. Most of the time I don’t know what I am feeling until I read it in my own handwriting. Whatever I have going on inside sprouts up and grows on a page in prose. It is therapeutic. Writing those stories helped strengthen the bond between me and my sister, and ultimately became a huge part of who I am today.
Thank you, Kimberly. I am forever grateful for the part you have played in my life.
I hope that reading my words is helpful to others. Writing it all down is the best advice I can offer. I have changed so much since that day in elementary school when I dressed up as an author and illustrator for “Career Day.” I am no longer the shy, quiet wallflower of my past. Now I speak every thought as it appears in my mind. Writing it all down helps me focus on what I really want to say. I no longer use my typewriter and have upgraded to a laptop, but my message is the same. Love your sisters unconditionally; don’t take anyone or anything for granted; never forget who you were, are, and will be. Write it down, and remember.
When I was a small child, I had a vivid imagination and the tools to play alone. I have an excellent long-term memory, though my short-term is struggling. I loved to play outside, camp, hike and participate in other family activities, but even as a kid I needed my space. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, stressed, or wanted to be alone, I built a space for myself to feel comfortable and safe. The roots of an old tree were a perfect place to settle in and rest or play by myself. Behind the couch in the living room. Inside a tent or make-shift fort. I slept in a bunkbed with my sister, and I was on the top bunk. I shrouded the space with sheets hanging from the ceiling. Now, my nest is a room in our house where I can go to be alone or to spend time with material possessions that bring me joy, and remind me of childhood happiness. This is my retreat. Sometimes, I lie on the bed in that room and fill the space with silent thoughts for hours. I think about my past, present, and future.
There are forces at work inside me, which I have difficulty identifying sometimes.
I understand Mania and can sense a manic episode headed in my direction. There are symptoms. When I was younger, these symptoms were more easily detected by my mom, and that frustrated me. I wanted to figure it out and beat her to the punch. I read about Bipolar I Disorder, researched, and learned about physical responses to triggers. I discovered what triggered me and stayed away from those before they became catastrophic. I learned–with help–how to manage my brain and keep the mania at bay. When I felt mania encroaching, I contacted my doctor. I tried to sleep, forced myself to eat, and stayed away from books, movies and songs that stirred up my insides. I began to know my body. I can now catch mania before my mom does and it feels like a tremendous success.
I understand Depression. I felt dread and anxiety in the pit of my stomach for the first time when I was thirteen. There were no psychiatrists in the area where I grew up. My pediatrician had no idea how to handle it or even recognize it. It was a feeling much like procrastination–the feeling of dread most kids experience on Sunday evenings, knowing the weekend is over and they are going back to school on Monday morning. That is what I came to believe was true for me. I was lazy and lethargic, irritable, angry, and sad for indiscernible reasons. Later in life, I was told that those feelings were contributed to my illness. My therapist said that my “self-focus” came from discovering how my brain works and did not mean I was selfish or lazy. I truly was not “in the mood.” Seriously? That’s a reality? Yes. Quite a comforting truth.
I recognize Bipolar I Disorder, which makes up the mood portion of my illness. The mood part is a combination of mania and depression. The “schizo” part is much harder to deal with. I sometimes hear voices in my head, experience paranoia, anxiety, panic attacks, delusions, irrational thinking, the loss of my memory, and many more symptoms attributed to Schizoaffective Disorder. When a few of these symptoms arise together, this may lead to psychosis. It is harder for me to identify because I have not been dealing with that part of my illness for the duration of my condition. It’s new, or only just discovered. It is important to acknowledge that psychosis does not mean “crazy” or to mistake “psychosis” with “Psycho.” That is another myth tied to the stigma. This is the part of my illness I have the most trouble dealing with and I would hate for anyone to misunderstand. With medication, family, psychiatry, and psychologist support, I live a happy, stable life. I do not experience psychosis frequently, yet knowing that psychosis is a real possibility scares me because it takes over my life and confuses reality. Understanding my mind and body has been no small task. It has taken a lifetime to recognize what goes on inside my head, while much of it still baffles me. The journey continues, and I am ever closer to unraveling the mystery and uncovering the invisible answers, while pondering in my nest.
I feel more comfortable writing about my struggles and successes when my name is Jane. The name provides a little protection; it is my turtle shell. My name is not Jane. It is my grandmother’s name and my middle. I was named after my dad, Samuel. My name is Samantha. Most people call me “Sam.” It is an honor to be named after one of the coolest people I know.
I am ready now to own my truth and to step out of Jane’s shadow. I have a psychiatric disorder and a label stamped on my head, but I do not let it define me. I lead a stable life, and I have schizoaffective disorder. This psychiatric disorder is like a mixed salad that you did not make for yourself. Imagine that you went to a dinner party, and the host brought out the salad as the first course. There is so much going on in this bowl that you cannot distinguish all of the ingredients even after you have tasted it. Schizoaffective disorder is full of indistinguishable ingredients. Not all cases are the same, but many people struggle with one or more of these illnesses: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, anxiety, depression, etc. with a dash of salt and pepper on top. My illness is a mix of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. From my perspective, it is so complicated that even after tasting it I cannot decipher everything within this salad.
Known Ingredients:
*Shifts in mood/demeanor
*Unexplained dread in the pit of your stomach
*Sadness for no discernible reason
*Shopping sprees and accruing debt
*Insomnia
*Too much sleep
*Procrastination
*High energy
*Low energy
*Hallucinations
*Delusions
*Inner voices
*Anger
*Outbursts
*Weight gain
*Weight loss
*Lack of motivation
Unknown Ingredients: ???
As a writer, it is important to write what you know. This is what I know. As I embrace the complexity of my illness and the aspects I cannot fully understand, I must confess that I rarely eat salad.
As far as I know, we aren’t born happy. We enter the world screaming at the top of our lungs. This is a world outside the comfort of our mother’s womb–the safest home we have known. Once we step into this big, wild, complicated environment, we face issues that later seem trivial; right out of the belly they seem humongous.
Many people have to work diligently to achieve happiness. There are pills to relieve anxiety and depression, but no pills full of happiness. We make our own happiness when we are not enveloped in its presence. I take several medications which aid in my struggle for happiness. I also muster all of the energy I possess toward reaching the level of happiness I require.
My growth was stunted at the age of fifteen because of my illness. My mind reverted to happy times in my past to help me forget the hard times. When I was nine, I was interested in reading about and collecting historical dolls, their clothing, and accessories. I have a massive collection now, because when you are an adult and have money you can buy toys that your allowance couldn’t cover when you were little. I can hold my first doll and breathe deeply, remembering the happy Christmas day when I first saw her under the tree. This comforts me. I can do this remembering technique with every doll and stuffed animal I have in my “nest” at home. I can snuggle with Tigger and remember the Disney store in New York City on a trip with my husband. Every time I hold “Bert,” my teddy bear, I am reminded of my earlier childhood happiness. There is one book that can comfort me like nothing else.
My Grandmama Patte was a storyteller. When I was little, she told precious stories to me and my sisters. We would ask her to tell us a story and request our favorites. There were five that stuck with me. She embellished and the details differed somewhat each time she told them. She would ask us to help her tell the stories, as she couldn’t quite remember everything. We would fill in the blanks where she forgot. I think she was trying to commit these stories to our memories long after she was gone. She succeeded. We grew up thinking she made up these stories on her own. When we were older, she gave us one of the most special gifts I have ever received. She bestowed upon each of us a book of Native American folklore; we found all of the stories she had told us throughout our lives. This book is so important to me because she died a few years later, but the stories live on. The happiness I gain from this book is monumental. Whenever I want to hear my Grandmama’s voice, I turn the page and concentrate with all my strength. I can hear her reading the story to me. When I am trying to fall asleep, daydreaming, or trying to control a panic attack, I think of joyful times I have experienced in my life. Deep breathing is key. Grandmama Patte’s voice is soothing.
There are many avenues toward happiness. One should not rely on another person for one’s happiness, though it is wonderful to have people in your life who bring you love and peace. There are steps to be taken in order to harness happiness and everyone has their own way of coping. Making art brings me closer to contentment. I sketch and color under a bright light that keeps me focused and comforts me. I am a pen pal to my older neighbor across the street. Sending and receiving letters with him brings me great joy. Stepping out for sunshine is an excellent way to soak up some natural therapy. Exercise is also helpful and will raise levels of serotonin, which stimulate delight.
These activities help me as an individual and may not work for everyone’s brain. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?
A psychiatric diagnosis is not required in order to express your feelings through creative outlets. In fact, it is a rewarding task. Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist, give it a try! There are many creative outlets to explore. Here are some examples:
*Painting
*Keeping a journal/Writing
*Keeping a sketchbook
*Drawing/Illustrating
*Photography
*Singing
*Playing an instrument
*Graphic Design
*Printmaking
*Sewing
*Weaving
*Basket making
*Candle making
*Baking
*Gardening
*DIY projects
There are many more, but these are a few to think about. I would love to hear about your endeavors. Send me an email or a comment about an activity that you found fulfilling. I suggest you try more than one!
My Grandma Sandy is a fountain of wisdom, a brave soul, has a huge heart, and stands up for individuals who need her most. She invites strangers to her house on Thanksgiving. She loves all and she is full of prayer. She doesn’t tolerate bullying. She is a pioneer in the way of taking steps toward positive change.
Sandy befriended a person with mental illness and strives to engage him in social settings, getting out of the house, and living life to its fullest. These can be challenges when one feels down and out. Sandy is tenacious and I know that she will never give up on this endeavor. When someone is suffering with a mental health condition such as depression, it’s like drowning. We struggle to tread water. It can be difficult to get out of bed. Walking around feels like a chore. Cleaning the kitchen? Keeping a tidy house? Yeah, right. Think again. Sometimes, it takes too much energy to utter words. We must jump through hoops to get back on our feet. Society does not understand this invisible threat, and those who carry the burden of mental illness know this better than anyone, yet no one wants to talk about it. In their state of ignorance, “normal” people try to push these issues under the rug and ignore them; if you can’t see them, no one else will, right? Mental illness is not caused by fault and is not a shameful secret. The stigma associated with the mentally ill leads to the belief that we are the “bad guys.” Not so.
While the stigma rounds us all up and stamps a label on our heads, we all suffer differently and do not fit neatly in a box. There are human beings with mental illness who live beautiful lives despite the “Berman” traveling with them. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents, friends. Just because you aren’t labeled doesn’t mean that mental illness doesn’t lurk inside your mind.
Recently, my grandma and her friend were at a group assembly and people told her to “Stay away from him!” My grandma said, “Shut up!” She protected her new friend from close-minded bullies. There are those in society who live in denial about the existence of mental illness because they do not want to accept the truth and move forward. The world is full of nonbelievers, but I hope that gradually those numbers will see the light and treat people with respect instead of fear. I am so proud of my grandma. Bullies should never have the last word. Sandy is a blessing in my life and many others. May this day and all days be filled with her radiance and courage.
–SJB
I dedicate this article to two of the loves in my life, on their birthday.
I am grateful beyond words for my mom. I am her firstborn. She has always kept me out of harm’s way. She encouraged me as a child and as an adult to reach for my dreams, work for them, and achieve them. I realize how lucky I am. She is one of my greatest loves. I have many loves in my life, and thanks to her, I not only have Mom and Dad. She gave me three wonderful sisters. My mom is not only the bearer of daughters. She is my best friend.
When I was a child, I was very particular about clothing. I wouldn’t wear tights, hated elastic, and never wore shorts or pants. I didn’t want to wear tight fitting clothes. If I had my way, I would have run around naked. Before my chest developed, I pretty much did. I normally wore loose dresses that I picked out. I was all about comfort, without a care for fashion. It bothered my mom to no end. I would try to get away with wearing a dress several days in a row, and all of my family members–immediate and extended–remember a specific green dress.
Mom and I got into huge fights about my wardrobe. I pitched angry fits. One day, she handed me to Dad and he ended the dressing battles. The rules were that I came up the stairs, lifted my arms, and twirled around so he could smell me. If I didn’t smell like a “little goat” (as my mom would refer to me upon sniffing my forehead), I could wear whatever I wanted, much to Mom’s chagrin. My relationship with my mom began to strengthen after our frustrations subsided. I love my mom, and I always have. It is difficult to relay that message when you have had a big fight.
My mom has been with me through thick and thin. I am tired of talking about the hospital, which I think is a very good step away. One last time. Mom was devastated. She had to go to work every day knowing where I was, thinking about me, and telling no one. At one point, I didn’t recognize her. Still she fought to bring me home, knowing in her heart that I would return. She brought me her homemade bread when I wasn’t eating. I devoured it. There is no way to turn down that bread. Absolutely no way.
In my adult life, we have spent a lot of time together. I visit her and Dad every Saturday for breakfast; sometimes she stops by my house for coffee. Often we have walked together. We have been on many road trips and she is good company. She decorates her house for my birthday every year no matter how old I get, and makes my favorite cupcakes (red velvet with cream cheese icing). When Rush and I got married, she planned the whole day and helped to make it the best day of my life. She makes my whole life special.
My mom is a huge part of my life, and without her I would be lost. She is my guiding star.
I am not currently depressed, but that’s because I am heavily medicated. I know that more than a handful of people are feeling anxious and depressed right now. It’s hard to stay indoors for days, fearful of a deadly virus which, in all actuality, is not completely gone. We are going about our daily lives trying to pick up the pieces where we left off, but there is a new normal and I believe we are celebrating too soon. This is negative thinking, but when you are depressed everything is stressful, including the state of the country and the fate of human kind.
I have an emotional support dog named Logan. He likes to ride on my shoulder all the time. When we ride in the car he snuggles in tight behind my neck, as I am his human seatbelt. He used to be much smaller, but now weighs a little under ten pounds. Carrying him is a bit more challenging but not impossible. Every case of depression is different, but when I am depressed I barely have the energy to talk, laugh or smile. I am physically and emotionally drained. I carry the burden of depression on my shoulders like baggage weighing much more than the weight of my dog.
When I am suffering through this mood, I want nothing more than to lie down and distract myself with a tv show or a really good book. I recommend medication because it has changed my life, but it is not everyone’s cup of tea.
Depression has a sneaky way of entering your mind. It is much easier to give in, give up, and feel defeated. Taking care of ourselves and processing these feelings leads to healing. It is important to note that depression is not your fault, you are not alone, and you are not lazy. It is okay to take a break and take a breath. This too shall pass. I learned recently that my feelings of “laziness” and “dread” are part of my mood disorder. I am not lazy. I am literally not in the mood. We must fight to accomplish tasks that need to be done, like getting out of bed, stepping outside, and encouraging the sun to help lift this mood. This depression will not last forever and delightful, invigorating, fantastic happy moments are on the horizon. There is life worth living!
