Dear Friend

                                                                    

                      

"Go, go, go said the bird/ Humankind cannot bear very much reality/ Time past and time future/ What might have been and what has been/ Point to one end which is always present." T.S. Eliot (1936) Burnt Norton lines 42-46 

Years ago, I used to volunteer with CMHA (Canadian Mental Health Association) I met the then CEO of CMHA Durham Branch, Linda Gallagher at a town meeting in Ajax. Upon hearing my experience living with Bipolar disorder 1 with psychosis, she later invited me to lunch and suggested that I join a program called T.A.M.I. (Talking About Mental Illness). Where a group of individuals like myself, living with various disorders, would go to the high schools and talk to the students. It was a richly rewarding and humbling experience. Especially when several  students not only learned of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder (the four various types), and clinical depression from those who actually had it, but when they would later approach us afterwards. 

Many would either ask questions or were brave enough to share their personal experiences regarding mental illness. It was comforting to know that unlike when I was in high school (in the mid seventies) there were resources and support now available for these youngsters that I had never had when I was their age. 

I'd written the following letter several years ago. It was originally published on my old blog in 2013, as a means of introducing myself to others who had come to me personally for help in understanding and coming to terms with their own diagnoses.

I initially composed it after I received a call from my dear friend Angie who had originally been my grade eight French teacher (Angie is only six years older than I am). We have been good friends now for fifty-one years come this September 2021. She asked that I visit with a friend of hers who also suffered with bipolar disorder. She felt I could offer her friend support, encouragement, and hope. 

Both my husband Ian and I visited her friend and her friend's husband We were able to offer insight from both our perspectives. Me who actually had the disorder and he as someone living with and loving someone who had it. 

Whether I spoke to people privately in person, or publicly in high schools, a church, a college classroom, or a rally, it was always productive. And yet strange to me, that I had gone from a shy, awkward teenager who loathed crowds, barely spoke, and petrified at public speaking, would find my voice because of my mental illness and fight so passionately to help eradicate the stigma attached to it. It is a cause I passionately believe in. It was and still is personal! 

I had given up public speaking, my volunteer work, my part-time job, but kept my part-time studies at university, as my grandchildren arrived. I chose to spend as much time with them as possible. 

However, I was unwilling to part with my mental health advocacy. In April 2012, I founded both a public and private support group on Facebook for those Living With Bipolar Disorder. This afforded me the means of communicating with persons globally and reach a wider audience. I have never looked back or regretted it.

The letter, I have since revised as there have been some changes in my life since first haven written it. I include it here on my newest blog this June 2021.

I would be remiss, if I did not acknowledge, I am often humbled by the lives that have been touched, changed, and some saved by my words and experiences. The knowledge that we are not alone in this struggle helps them and myself daily. The thousands of persons from all parts of the globe who regularly communicate their suffering and understanding, among themselves who share their strengths and their weakness, who offer support, encouragement, acceptance, and inspiration of one another is profoundly moving. They have helped me every bit as much as I have helped them. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I would most likely not be here today, if not for the love, loyalty, support, of my husband Ian (43 years married this 2021; together 45) who has stood in the fire with me and not shrunk back. And our two sons, our daughter in laws, our four young grandchildren, the many family and friends who love and support me unconditionally.

I have a strong support system and people to help me through these challenges. There are so many others who have no such support. And it is heart breaking. To those suffering in mind like me. 

Dear Friend:

Danish philosopher and theologian Soren Kierkegaard wisely said: “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” Many years later I read a maxim by Oscar Wilde “The final mystery is oneself.” It is a mystery why you and I have been afflicted with this troubling disease (bipolar depression). Perhaps, you too, once asked yourself “Why me and not the other members of our families?”  Perhaps, you also felt that it was some sort of a curse, or a punishment for past sins. In the beginning, when I had lost my mind completely for the first time in June of 1989, I felt what seemed to be an inner battle for both my soul and my mind. I felt, tasted and breathed a fear that I had never known before. I felt such shame in accepting the fact that I was “troubled in mind.” I felt certain that I had a broken brain as well as a broken heart. I did not know where to turn with that pain and for the better part of my life, I internalized it.

There was then, and sadly still is, such a stigma attached to mental illness. I was concerned everyone's perception of me would change. Family, friends, and strangers would know that I was “different.” I believed that people would treat me differently if they knew. Perhaps they would love and respect me less. I could not talk about it. I would not talk about it. How could I talk about something I myself did not know or understand. Mental health professionals misdiagnosed me twice. It took six years for them to reach an accurate diagnosis, another five years to find a medication that worked best for me, and a psychiatrist specialized in this field whom I trusted. The first who listened and heard and helped me. 

In the beginning, I did not know what had happened to me, or why, but I could not forget the experience. The only thing I knew for certain was that none of my family, not my husband, or our children, our families or our friends, as much as they loved and supported me, could possibly know nor understand what I was going through. They recognized that something was seriously wrong with me. Hell, I knew something was wrong with me. But they did not know how to help me. My husband's immediate response seemed to be “She’s broken, fix her.” 

None of them could feel my pain, share my shame, or touch my fear. Embracing that fear was the most difficult thing for me to do. I was not certain if it was my own fear, or the fear that I read in so many other peoples faces strangers and loved ones that bothered me more.

For the first time in my life, I surrendered completely to a higher power, the universe, as I desperately needed to take control of my situation and my life. I needed help to endure this trial. I had to trust that it  the universe, call it what you will would see me through. Though I had felt it before under different circumstance never more to an unseen presence than I did when I first lost my mind.

It seemed that finally something or someone heard me. It was the second time in my life that I became acutely aware of this presence. The first was when my mother had tried to kill herself when I was nineteen years old and I had found her sprawled on the upstairs hall floor in October of 1976, shortly after she had overdosed on a bottle of sleeping pills. But this was the first time that I personally trusted something outside myself enough to help me personally. Perhaps that was part of the problem; I could not completely TRUST anyone.

 I recognized that I had fallen apart like Humpty Dumpty and wondered if I would ever gather the fragments of my former self together and be normal again. The truth is that I am not normal, I never was, and I knew it. But how does society define normal? We are all wounded and broken in various ways and to different degrees throughout our lives. Ernest Hemingway had written about being “strong at the broken places” and others have said that there are within each of us wounds that only God may touch. Mine was a wound, or a succession of wounds, so deep, I myself, did not know the extent or the depth of that pain.

We hurt and we heal by various degrees. Several years later, after my open heart surgery at aged thirty eight to repair a hole in my heart, my friend and ex-teacher Angie told me that sometimes the healing process hurts far more than the original wound. And she was right. This is a truth which can be applied to spiritual, psychological, and emotional wounds as well. They are long painful healing processes that do not occur overnight.

Our lives circumstances and our personalities make us very different people. We each have our individual coping mechanisms. I do not know you and you do not know me, but I share your pain-I know it well. I have been where you are now and lived with my disorder for many years. Every day is a constant struggle when you are mentally ill.

Galileo had said “We cannot teach a man anything, we can only help him to discover it within himself.” What helped me may not necessarily help you. The drugs that worked for me may not work for you. It will take years of various medications and a long succession of doctors until you find the proper combination that works best for you. As I revise this writing in June of 2021, I currently take only one medication. A mood stabilizer Epival 500 mg twice a day.

I have been on this medication for twenty one years and there is no guarantee it will not stop working one day. Or that I would never experience yet another psychotic break. But I do not live my life in fear. I take each day, each step, each breath at a time. Grateful that I have lived as long as I have. I am thriving in spite of my disorder. Sometimes, I honestly think because of it.

The first step in my own recovery was learning all that I could about bipolar and the particular type I have. It helped that my husband Ian was willing to learn all he could about it too, in an effort to understand what I was going through and what he should expect. I then learned to accept it. Knowing that it is incurable, hereditary but that it could be controlled gave me the hope and reassurance that I would not be lost in this darkness forever.

I then found a doctor whom I felt comfortable with and finally a medication that worked for me. This process did not happen overnight. It took me over nine years and three more psychotic breaks before it was finally under control. Living with bipolar disorder is not for the faint of heart.

In the mean time, I deepened my spiritually and strengthened my relationships with many of my loved ones. I read numerous books that helped me, on my journey. One in particular by a renowned psychologist Dr Kay Redfield Jamison who is herself bipolar. Her book “An Unquiet Mind” changed my life. It gave me the courage to go to school part-time in September 2002 to work on my English Literature degree in my forties. I received my degree in my mid fifties.

When reading the epilogue of Jamison’s book, I cried uncontrollably because for the first time since developing this disorder, someone described precisely how I felt and what I experienced with brutal honesty and raw emotion. She spoke as a patient and a fellow traveller, on a long and arduous journey rather than as a doctor using medical jargon that I may or may not understand. Her approach was emphatic and compassionate rather than cold and clinical. She spoke from human experience rather than from a clinical perspective. She shared the pilgrimage with me and knew the darkness, both the highs and the lows. She did not let her illness define her, and from then on, neither would I.

I too, had several things in my favour. I have a huge loving and supportive family including my in-laws, good friends and intense faith in a higher power and a strong sense of humour. Sadly, as I witnessed for myself during my hospitalizations, many patients, coping with mental illness do not have these blessings. Many have no one to help them through these challenges.

Please understand that although most of my family does accept that I have this disorder not everyone in my family and not all of my friends understand nor want to understand this illness. Many of them view it as a character flaw, a weakness, or a blemish on the family history. Many do not want to deal with the issue and therefore, will not talk about it. They do not ask questions or really want to listen. It seems they are more concerned with their comfort than mine. Or they do not know how to approach the subject and perhaps fear that it would upset me. In many cases, I think it is because it frightens them and the possibility that it could happen to any one of them; or to future generations is an abject reality they simply cannot or will not face. T. S. Eliot had said, “Human kind cannot bear very much reality” and he was right.

 If I had cancer, heart disease or any other physical disease they would be far more tolerant and understanding, but mental illness is generally viewed as a psychological disorder and the biological component is seldom addressed. It is partly a chemical imbalance in the brain which a drug helps regulate. If not for my medication, I would not be able to function as normally as I do these past twenty four years.

I love to read, to write, to reflect and to record these reflections in my journals. I used to enjoy long walks, intimate candlelight dinners with my husband, and dancing with him until the wee hours of the morning (something we used to do years ago before my osteoarthritis ruined my knees).

I have returned to my first love art! I spend hours sketching and painting. I love movies and popcorn, cooking various culinary dishes from different countries, good food, good company and good conversation. I love the sanctity and peace I feel in my home, most especially our beautiful garden which my husband and I built together. I love being with him, our children and grandchildren, our families and our friends. I cherish their presence, love, and support.

Most importantly, I have learned to embrace the pain, feel the full weight of it and then let it go. It had taken me many years to let go of past hurts and disappointments, to allow myself to grieve and move on. I have learned to count my blessings and savour the moments as they come. It is only now in my mid sixties, I have truly begun to love my life. I have allowed myself the freedom to love and to allow myself to be loved in return. I have, since embarking on this journey, found a sense of purpose in my life, and as strangely as it sounds for having developed this disorder, a gratitude for having become a more compassionate, empathetic, kind, loving, and tolerant human being because of it.

Bipolar depression is part of who I am, but I do not let it control or define me. Life wounds all of us and the scars forever remain. Although I have learned to accept and to control my illness, I also learned to view the world and myself through very different eyes. Catholic author John Powell had written: "Two men looked out from prison bars. One saw mud and the other saw stars." It struck a deep chord in me. I have since changed my perceptions regarding many things. 

I can recommend various books to help you toward better spiritual, psychological and emotional health. Books have always been my closest companions. They are friends, teachers, and guides. I do not know you, but I shall hold you in my heart, in my thoughts, and always in my prayers.

 Love and Prayers

Lynn-Marie Ramjass