The anatomy of a disease. . . .

I have thought long and hard about acknowledging publicly that I suffer from a disease, but after hearing the sad news of Robin Williams's death earlier this week, I've felt compelled to come forward.

The disease I'm talking about is mental illness. In my case, Bipolar I. In Williams's case, he was seeking treatment for severe depression. I had often thought Robin Williams was bipolar, based on his manic behavior. As this "World of Psychology" article states in its "Editor's Note," he never publicly acknowledged being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but he exhibited many of the symptoms, two of which are mania and depression.

Manic depression or bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance of the brain that, when left untreated, leads to severe highs which can morph into full-blown manic episodes. In these manic episodes, a person can experience the inability to sleep, feelings of grandeur, hallucinations, rapid speech, and agitation. A manic episode is often preceded by a period of severe depression. It can also be followed by a period a severe depression. When left untreated, a person can literally feel like they're on a roller coaster of emotion. The disease is genetic, and there is no "cure." Thankfully, though, there is medication that can treat the illness.

Manic depression usually rears its ugly head when a person reaches their early twenties. In my case, I believe it started in high school where I battled depression throughout the four years. I also struggled with sleep, some nights only getting four hours of sleep. When I was nineteen, I had my first manic episode. It was preceded by a severe depressive episode that lasted for months, at which time I slept hours and hours each day and gained a lot of weight since I turned to food for comfort. In the spring of 1981, the manic episode hit and didn't pull any punches. As for my "feelings of grandeur," I was convinced I would become President of the United States. As I often joke to my loved ones and friends who know I'm bipolar, manic depressives don't aim low with their achievements. Nope. We go for it all. I eventually came out of this episode, not by medication or treatment, but because it simply ran its course after a few weeks. Afterward, I did what I always do when I want to find information. I researched it and self diagnosed my illness. I later started seeing a therapist, a man who I can in all honesty say I owe my life. After telling him about my "breakdown," his first question to me was, "Is there a history of manic depression in your family?" When I answered, "yes," he said, "Manic depression is no different than diabetes. It can be treated with medication." To which I said, "I'm sure it can, but I prefer to take care of this with help from God."

So. For the next ten years, I did just that. Tried to control something that I had no control over because, again, it is a chemical imbalance in the brain. I would experience highs and lows. "Hypomanic" periods where I was functioning on very little sleep, but I was still functioning. At that time, I didn't write, as I do now, although I finished with a degree in journalism and went on to work as a general assignment reporter and sportswriter. To attempt to ease my mind when I couldn't sleep, I sketched, staying up for hours late at night, leaning over a photograph of the Rocky Mountains and sketching it onto my sketchpad. When the lows would hit, I would usually be okay. But, along with the severe depressive episode I suffered when I was nineteen, I suffered through another one in 1990. This was debilitating to the point that I contemplated suicide, even to the extent that I knew how I'd do it. The next thought, though, was that my parents would find me. And I couldn't do that to them. I still believe that was God's way of keeping me alive. During this period, I would spend hours on the phone with the woman I call my "second" mom. Jackie was there for me, listening to me, gently asking me if I thought of seeing my therapist. I was so depressed, I didn't even have the energy to make that phone call.

Just as in 1981, this led to a full-blown manic episode. The week that it hit, I had probably gotten four to possibly six hours sleep the entire week. At the time, I was a student at IUPUI, attempting to finish my degree that I had started right out of high school at IU in Bloomington. I was working on the school newspaper when this one hit. Since I was working on a story at the time, my mania convinced me that I'd won the Pulitzer Prize. Again, nothing but the best--not a winner of a local writing contest, but a winner of the highest honor in journalism. I also became very sick with bronchitis. So sick, in fact, that I decided to check myself into a hospital for treatment. I thought, after all, that's what Pulitzer Prize winners do after winning the award--go to the hospital to recuperate. While there, my parents found out where I was because I called Jackie. They were able to tell the doctor about my manic depression, and despite their misgivings, he approached me and asked if I would agree to a transfer to their psychiatric unit on the north side. I thought, okay, sure. While I'm in here, I might as well get on the medication to treat my illness. Because before all of this happened, I had made an appointment to see a psychiatrist for later in January 1991 to start on the meds.

The psychiatrist told my parents to expect me to be in the hospital for at least six weeks. I was there for two. It wasn't that I was rushed to get out of there. It's that I responded that quickly to the medication. I also participated in group therapy, talking with the nurses, and also with my psychiatrist. I don't know what you may picture when you picture a psych unit. This place reminded me of living in dorm life again. I had a roommate. There was a community area to watch TV. I just couldn't leave. Not until I came out of the manic episode and not until the psychiatrist was convinced the treatment was working.

Since the day I left that place, January 28, 1991, I have been on my meds and have never even thought of going off of them. Because of this, I've never suffered a "relapse." I call it "staying sober," because really, it is. At least for me it is. In 2001, I switched from lithium to Depakote to treat the manic part of the disorder. I also take an anti-depressant to control that part of the illness. I see my psychiatrist who prescribes the medication twice a year and am tested for my liver function (since Depakote can affect your liver) and for my level to make sure it's in therapeutic range. I try to avoid stress when possible, but as we all know in life, sometimes it's unavoidable. I'm blessed with Phyllis who looks after me and makes sure everything stays as even as possible in our lives.

Why am I writing this and sharing my story with you? Maybe it's because I want you to at least have an idea of how this disease works. I am blessed that I've found a medication that works for me. I am blessed that I have a remarkable man as a therapist. A man who is more like an uncle to me now after seeing him for almost thirty-five years. I know some bipolar patients struggle to find the right combination and continue to suffer with the highs and lows.

Another reason I'm sharing is to ask you to reach out to anyone who talks about suicide, regardless of whether you think they're serious. Please try to get them to seek professional help. Also, reach out to anyone who may not talk about suicide, but who's been feeling low. Even a phone call or a quick email can raise someone's spirit. I can't tell you how much my friends, my Facebook friends, and others in my life kept me going with a simple note, saying, "Hey, I was thinking about you today and wanted to say hang in there."

But I'm also sharing my story so that you may think before you let go with a flippant remark, or, if you're an author, that you may think before you write a flippant remark about bipolar disorder or manic depression--any mental illness, for that matter. There have been at least two occasions when I've read a romance where I've come across such remarks. I literally felt like I'd been slapped in the face and seriously considered not finishing the books. But then I thought, no, the authors are uninformed. They don't have anyone in their family who suffers from this disease. They simply don't understand.

The news that Robin Williams had committed suicide really didn't hit me hard until yesterday. I started thinking about my life. I started thinking about my struggles with manic depression, and because Williams was fighting severe depression at the time of his death, I started thinking about when I had felt that low. Then I cried. I cried for his family. His friends. His colleagues. I cried for those of us who enjoyed his humor and the fact he could take us away from our troubles, if only for a while. And I cried because "there but for the grace of God go I."

Two of my favorite Robin Williams's movies are Penny Marshall's Awakenings and the comedy, Birdcage. This weekend, I plan to watch Birdcage again. Because I want to remember and honor Robin Williams in the best way I know how--by laughing....





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Published on August 13, 2014 16:58
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