The beginning of this book really gave me a new fear in life. Having bipolar disorder 2, I've come to terms with the fact that one of my girls may have it as well. I'm mentally prepared to possibly identify it, but also help them to process it in ways that I never had. The new fear is that one of them, or their kids one day would have bipolar disorder 1, which is very different than my experience. The idea of one of them being truly debilitated and unable to fully function due to my genes is a very tough pill to swallow. I pride myself in being a good dad, but I do have a strong fear of the unavoidable fact that my genes used to create them may one day be the reason they are experiencing the scary depression I went through, or mania.
With bipolar, I admit I am also pretty ignorant. I've done very little research in to what bipolar disorder really is, beyond some basic research in to 1 vs 2. I probably don't do a perfect service to the accuracy of the mental illness when I talk about it, as I describe it based on my experience more than the technical scientific definition. I learned some new things in this book that have given me more of a drive to go do my own research and better understand this illness I have. The tricky part is that my limited understanding is that there is not a ton of scientific expertise on what bipolar really is and what causes it beyond it being some sort of chemical imbalance in the brain. The brain is so full of unknowns and they may know that some meds help treat it, that doesn't mean they know why. For me, that's okay as I don't need the answers but I could see that being a struggle for others.
I also really feel for Jaime as I went through my life having Jesus to rely on through all of my struggles. Now as she described, her bend was mania more than depression, but I still don't know where I'd be if it were not for my relationship with Jesus. I grew up with a grandmother and uncle with bipolar 1, hearing negative things about how they act and their "craziness," even if I was too young to see the brunt of it. Being diagnosed was tough for me as I didnt want to be put in the same category as them. I wish I could go back in time and allow my grandma to get the treatment and counseling that would have probably changed her life for the better. She grew up in a different generation and I can't imagine going as long as she did being told that she was a worrier to explain her disorder away.
Now, I did do some skimming as I said - I was not overly interested in all of the history and background around lithium as I have no experience with it. I also had a different experience with medication application than she did. For me, I started Latuda and had immediate life changing results. It took some time to nail down dosage and get me also prescribed to take Lamictal which treated the anger/temper side of bipolar. I'm incredibly thankful that my journey for lack of a better word was short and sweet. I can only imagine the frustration and hopelessness that can come with years of fighting for a solution. I really resonated also with her struggle to let go of lithium after all of the years it helped her. I was diagnosed much later in life than her and have been on my meds for 4 years now, but would be absolutely devastated if I had something come up that made me give up my current medications. That would be potentially giving up my mental stability or sanity. It would mean potentially giving up the ability to be the husband, father, friend and son that I am and hoped for so long to be. When I first was diagnosed, I really had to process the emotions and fear that came with finally feeling good and thinking "what if I change jobs and can't afford the medication?" or "what if the meds stop working so good?" or "what if the meds stop being available?" I still have those fears and they may never go away. The stakes are even higher now than 4 years ago. I have kids that are older enough to build life-long memories and I don't want those memories to be of me not properly medicated. This is not a short term fear either - I have (hopefully) 50-60 years of life left to live here and the hope is that I'll be properly medicated as I am now for all of it. That's a lot of weight to put on 2 little white pills that I take every night. I also hope that I'm not secretly destroying or hurting something in my body that I can't see of feel, which may come to show years or decades down the road. It's a risk I have to take and do so gladly, but it's a risk nonetheless. I've been lucky to avoid side-effects (to the best of my knowledge) beyond weight gain, but that may not always be the case. I live with the fear that I'd be hospitalized or something else and miss my medication for 5 days and have to restart the dosage building process, potentially putting Jo and the girls in a position to deal with a part of me that Im scared of.
This review ended up being a bit of a personal journal, but it really brought up a lot of feelings for me and made me think about things that I've not thought of for some time. I make jokes about it often, but I hate that I have a mental illness. I hate that I won the genetic lottery in my family and Im the one who got it. I hate that there is a side of me that I am scared of that lurks in the back of my mind, waiting for the chance to get out. I've talked to my psychiatrist about this before, but I still feel when my body is in a down episode. I feel my brain trying to attack me still. When I am in one, I feel that part of my brain wants to be depressed, sad or angry. It feels like there is a monster locked in a cage in my mind, slamming at the bars trying to get out. The scary part is that the monster is part of me, part of the chemicals that make my brain work. These two little white pills create the cage that holds it in, but when I hit these episodes, I am reminded that I am medicated or treated, but not cured. I'm reminded that God has brought me out of the storm I was in, provided relief but he has not removed the thorn entirely.
As the title states, I know what it's like to feel as though you're losing your mind. I know what it's like to feel as though someone else is holding the steering wheel in your head, going where they please even if it hurts you. I have bipolar disorder too, and it's more than being sad. It's an illness and it's part of me. It's scary, but it's who I am and always will be.