One of the things that I think very few of my readers know about me is that I am bipolar. I’ve hesitated to say anything about it because I’ve always feared that if people knew, they would simply discount anything I had to say.
So, why have I decided to be public about it? Well, there are a number of reasons.
I think I feel like finishing my masters was proof that, even though I’m not particularly normal, I can function intelligently. It is as if society has vetted me: everything I say is not rubbish (although I’m sure it sometimes is.)
I also wanted my readers to know why I go through long periods in which I shut down and don’t write. I write when I’m manic, and find it impossible to do when I’m depressed. It’s as if my ability to generate ideas plummets by 90%. And those I do get, I discount as being second-rate. When I’m manic, I become incredibly productive. I’m blessed with a type of mania that allows me to focus intensely and for long periods of time. Hence the multi-part stories that come out in great big glouts. But why can’t I finish them? I still haven’t been able to answer that.
Another reason I wanted to come clean about it is that there are a lot of people who suffer from bipolar disorder, who feel like they won’t make it through. The suicide rate for us is very high – astonishingly high for those who don’t get treatment. And, when we do get treatment, many of us feel like half of who we are has been cut out with the insanity. You see, we love the highs.
I was diagnosed with the disease almost 20 years ago.
Once I understood the illness, I realized that I had been sick since I was about 14. But going into the music business is a perfect place to hide if you are bipolar; it’s an industry that accepts the flights of mania as a performer’s natural state, and forgives the depression as poetic. It wasn’t until an international record contract I had been signed to fell apart, that I plunged into a trough so deep, I could not – for anything in the world – find a reason to go on living. I spent eight months in bed, watching TV, listening to a walkman and playing game-boy all at the same time to drown out the rushing, horrific, death-obsessed thoughts that ploughed through my brain like a never-ending freight train. If I tried to force myself to go out, I’d have raging panic attacks during which I was absolutely sure I was facing imminent death, right there in the middle of the snack aisle in the supermarket. Then I just stopped trying to force myself.
One morning, at about 5 AM, I lay in bed and looked at my open closet and, very calmly, decided that the rail was indeed high enough to hang myself on. It seemed the sensible thing to do.
Some very small corner of my mind spoke up and said: “Wow, this isn’t normal.” It saved my life.
I put my coat on, over my pyjamas, laced my sneakers on my bare feet, and walked down the street at dawn to the closest hospital. I walked up to the emergency counter and told them exactly what I was thinking. Luck must have been smiling down on me, because the woman behind the counter nodded her head, said, “Follow me.” And walked me up to the psych ward.
Another stroke of luck was that, although I was initially diagnosed with major depression, my regular doctor suggested I go and see a friend of his – a very old Czech psychiatrist who had been kicked out of his chair at a prestigious university for testing a new drug on manic-depressives.
At that time, the drug of choice – the only drug – for treating manic depression was lithium, which is a salt. It works, but the dosage you have to take to get results is very close to a toxic dose. It has terrible side-effects: your skin goes grey and lumpy, the muscles in your face that relay your emotions stop working, you have constant stomach problems.
After being diagnosed as bipolar, this rebel Czech put me on a drug called carbamazepine. It wasn’t a new drug – it had been used to treat epileptics with grande mal seizures for many years. He believed that it had great potential for helping with manic-depression. The only problem was that, in a very few number of patients, it could plummet their white blood cell count. Most psychiatrists felt it was a dangerous alternative to a drug they knew that worked. Lithium might be uncomfortable, but it didn’t actually *kill* the patients who took it.
I spent about five years on “tegretol” (carbamazepine). And the drug worked brilliantly for me. But, as I mentioned earlier, even the new treatments all have a significant downside that I feel a lot of psychiatrists don’t fully understand. The drugs stop us from behaving abnormally – but they also have a severely negative effect on creativity.
It is ironic to speculate that, if I hadn’t been diagnosed and treated, I might have been writing brilliant things for the last 20 years. On the other hand, if I hadn’t been treated, I might just have easily been dead. And that’s the catch, because finding a balance between living productively with un-medicated manic-depression and dying from it is such a tricky thing.
I went off my medication about ten years ago. Partly because I felt a great deal better, and partly because, with the help of an extraordinarily good psycho-therapist, I learned to listen for the tell-tale signs of an approaching season of either mania or depression.
I learned, for instance, that sleep is incredibly important in keeping me mentally healthy. I don’t need more than about six hours a night, but if I don’t get it for a couple of nights in a row, or my sleep is interrupted – and especially if I start to experience early-morning waking – it’s time to think about going back on the drugs.
Another important thing I learned was that one of the biggest triggers for me is a certain, very specific, sort of stress. I actually enjoy high-stress situations where I feel challenged: deadlines, budget constraints, and heavy workloads, having to operate at the edge of my capacity. I find situations like this invigorating and life-affirming. But I cannot bear the stress that comes from being in a position of responsibility with no authority; a situation where I can’t succeed because I don’t have control or power to actually meet the expectations or the goals set. This type of stress is poison for me and it will trigger a descent into depression within three or four days.
There are a few other minor danger zones, but those two are the most perilous. And in the past 15 years, I’ve learned to avoid them very cleverly. I always have sleeping pills on hand in case I am not sleeping well, and I know enough to walk away from situations in which I feel I’m being set-up to fail.
That self-knowledge makes it possible for me to live without the medication, which, in turn, allows me to write creatively. But it also means that I am not ‘normal’. And I do actively navigate the milder highs and lows.
I’m sensitive to the times when the lethargy and chill of depression creeps into my life, and I’m equally aware of when the volume and frenetic thinking of mania pushes at the edges of my balance. I have to admit to riding them. And I’m not always as quick to recognize the over-reaching, grandiose thinking that signals mania, as I should be. For instance, about two years ago I decided that it would be absolutely no problem to take a certificate of jurisprudence, and do my PhD at the same time. Two days later, I leveled off and realized just how dumb that idea was. Sometimes it takes me a day or two to realize I’m not thinking sensibly, but I get there, and stop myself.
The lows are a little harder to recognize, because I don’t get “sad”. It’s more that a strange sort of creeping mental paralysis takes over. I don’t want to go out, I don’t have the energy to engage with the rest of the world. But when I start bargaining with myself about getting out of bed in the morning, I know what’s happening and I force myself to go out, get involved, teach my classes. Being around people – especially my students – pulls me out of it. Just by being who they are, they show me the light at the end of the tunnel, and very soon, the sense of futility lifts.
It’s with a certain about of embarrassment that I write this blog post. I know a lot of people blog about their personal problems, and I think that’s fine. But it isn’t usually what I use mine for. But equally, I just felt that after eight years of writing extremely intimate stories online, I kind of owed you some openness.
Brave. Recognizable. Frightening. And much more common than people think. I think it’s interesting that there are two things we don’t talk about openly – sex is one. depression the other.
This is amazing to read. And incredibly brave to write. Thank you for sharing.
I recognize much of myself in what you have written here. I even have two of the same major triggers, along with the addition of my diet. I need to be very careful about keeping the quality of my nutrition high. A few days of eating junk is as bad as not sleeping.
While I have been very open on my anonymous blog about being bipolar, I am much more circumspect in my daily life, about who I share the fact of my disorder with. For the very same reason, my credibility seems to suffer.
Thank you for sharing with us. It was a brave step to take, and I admire you for it.
Thank you for writing this.
Bless you RG
I think you have helped a lot of people with this courageous and moving glimpse of your life with bipolar. Thank you.
I thoroughly enjoyed this post, RG. I can’t recall how, but the bi-polar was one of the first things I knew about you. We may have had a mutual acquaintance, I think. Anyways, that’s how I realized that sometimes you’d write a lot and sometimes nothing.I’ve read your words over the years and just been amazed and quite enthralled by the progress; not just the writing but your life in general (or what I know of it through what you share). I think the Masters was fantastic for you just as it is fantastic for me. I don’t have bi-polar but I did suffer from depression which has now completely lifted. All that cultural theory does something, I guess… Anyways, keep on keeping on. You are my inspiration!
I, too, take very good care to maintain and monitor my body. It’s strange how little awareness we have, we ghosts in the machine.
Thank you for your courage.
I think it takes a lot of courage to come out: even now, there are still people who seem to think that having a uni- or bipolar disorder is a “lifestyle” choice, something that you can just snap out of; and others who are so discomforted by the idea of mental illness that they quite literally cross to the other side of the street.
Having had a major depressive episode a couple of years ago, I can now recognise that it had its roots in things long before, and that there were prodromal signs that I didn’t recognise. And, curiously, I’m not now the same person that I was: I’m much more liberal and tolerant, perhaps my conservatism was nothing more than a socially constructed carapace, my being what I “ought” to be rather than what I really was. And I don’t trust my judgement either; I’ve written comments on blogs that I wished later that I hadn’t, but there’s no ‘remove comment’ button. I’m sure I’ve done it here: I apologise, I just wasn’t myself.
Well said, RG, well said!
Hmmm. Well, all the comments you’ve left on my blog have been pretty damn sensible. :p
RG,
thank you, this is very brave and hopefully helpful for those who suffer from Bipolar.
I have a cousin, a brilliant girl, I say girl she is in her 60’s.
She started Bipolar around fifty years ago, I wish we knew then what we know now.
We, her family rallied round, but lack of knowledge and also prejudice is always crippling.
Warm hugs,
Paul.
I’ve been following your blog with great interest for the better part of 2 years now and I can’t tell you how often and deeply your words have moved me. I’m not a writer but I am a passionate reader in search of something to connect me to … I don’t know … humanity?
Of everything that has come from inside of you,every picture brought to light on the screen that plays in my head. This… this willingness to open , this revelation , this courageous exposure , well it leaves me speechless.
I have shared a good portion of my life with a woman who was bipolar, and together we celebrated the manic and held on though the darkness.
Understanding is the key.
Think of yourself as a wave in the ocean driven to the shore , rising to a magnificent crest … then breaking and crashing on the beach.
Any release of energy has a refraction period.
Use it to get ready for the next wave.
Thank you for sharing .
J.
I’m really touched by your comment regarding my writing. I think manic depressives (that’s what they called it when I was diagnosed) are pretty damn hard to live with. I’m very lucky. I’ve got a mild version of it. I don’t go through extremes of mania – I’ve never shopped myself into debt or had the overwhelming urge to fuck everyone in a room. The lows are, however, very black. But my cycles have gotten much milder with age, and I ride them out pretty easily. And when they scare me, I go back on the meds.
But I think it has made me a lousy partner. Once someone knows you’re bipolar, they always put what you say or what you want through the filter of ‘is this the illness talking or her?’. It’s hard to negotiate this on both sides. Because it is and isn’t me.
This was a beautiful post. I’ve followed your blog for at least two years and left only one comment (coming up with something to say that hasn’t already been said has never been easy), but getting this insight to you as a person as well as a writer made me want to just let you know that there are a lot more of us out here than you probably know who respect and love what you do beyond words. During the long periods of silence, my daily check-in would become weekly, then bi-weekly, but the one check-in that yields something new is always a wonderful one.
It’ll be a long time before I stop checking in.
I’ve been reading you for, I don’t know how long. Quite a few years. You must have one of the minds I admire the most. Your writing has always resonated with me on a level that’s scary. But why do you necessarily consider yourself broken ? Or any other person that has to deal with his or her own challenge. What I’m trying to get at is : Why must we always consider / measure things in absolute terms ? Just because you, for instance, must live with this, why does it have to be a “problem” ? Coz all of us are taking something with us through life. Why does this have to be perceived in the negative ? Why does society’s norms dictate that we must measure up to, and match, a perfect 10 ? Why can’t we just “be” ? Why is just being no longer enough ? I for one, have actively opted out of trying to match that perfect 10 because it damn near killed me. Surely there is a better way ?
Being bipolar is not a sin, so you should not be ashamed to admit that you are one. We all have our rough times and we are just human capable of shutting down once in a while. What is important is that you strive to live a normal life and that you are inspiring other people to do the same even having the same condition.
Er.. I’m not ashamed. I’ve been cautious in the past. People make assumptions.
RG,
Thank you for sharing this very personal information, it shows your tremendous care and respect that you have for your readers. In turn your devoted readers, like myself, will appreciate your work in a deeper way.
Its interesting to me that you actually recognized the situation and sought the assistance on your own. Usually there is a friend or family member who ‘suggests’ the help because the stigma of mental illness is very great to the vast majority, even to the one suffering may go through the internal ‘I’m not crazy’ struggle. Also, I’m very glad to see you recognize that the situation is not static, you must tailor the remedies to your state of being whether that be drug, diet, work load, and sleep. We humans need adequate sleep to function properly, that’s just a simple fact.
~TFP
Thank you for sharing, RG. This post was deeply touching, and the self-awareness in it is humbling. It’s rare to get such an articulate insight into such a shadowed and misunderstood condition. It’s a selfish thought, but i think i echo a lot of your readers when i say that I am So. Fucking. Glad. you went to that emergency room.
Big love,
Squeaky.
XXX
P.S. Great art has never come from The Normal.
…what is ‘normal’?
Well, agreed, normal is a relative term. But stark raving bonkers isn’t. And I’ve been there. This is way better.
RG,
This is an amazingly brave thing to share. You and I have spoken in the past about this, mainly with you giving me a great deal of insight into the partner I had at the time. I, too, am glad you went to the ER. You’ve been an amazing friend to me over the years.
Knowing the sine curve of my own creativity, when the ability to create seems immersed in cotton and completely out of reach, and living with someone who went through those highs and lows, I have always thought you an amazing, brave person.
My opinion has only been solidified by this post.
*hugs*
~Ais
Hi RG, long time no comment 😛
As a woman who has lived a bipolar man for 7 years who was only diagnosed a little under a year ago this post means a lot to me. Thank you for all your words and your wonderful twitter 🙂
cheers,
e