FIRST, some boring housekeeping matters:
1) I'm not sure if my RSS feed works, but I know that if you subscribe via email, you'll get an email everytime I post. So I encourage you to do that if you want to follow me - it's quick, easy, and unobstrusive.
2) I appreciate the comments, emails, etc. that both help me improve the blog and motivate me to continue writing - so if you read and appreciate this effort I'd love to hear from you.
One of the themes I've noticed as I look back over my blog is acceptance. How and when does one accept, and even embrace, her mental illness? When is acceptance giving up and when is it the ultimate victory? When is it a crucial step in recovery and when is it a paralyzing blow?
I've been thinking about a simple question: If I could go back in time and undo my bipolar disorder, would I?
The sexy answer is no. The popular answer is no. The "accept yourself," "born this way" answer is that I wouldn't change a thing about myself, that there are pros and cons about this illness but that at the end of the day, I accept myself with all my shades of grey and black and blue. Of course, you'd never tell someone with cancer that they were "born that way," but people with mental illnesses hear things like, "you're so lucky to feel manic sometimes," or "it must be really great to feel the world so intensely," or "maybe being bipolar isn't so bad after all" all. the. time.
If I could keep my personality, my family, my life situation, and give up my mental illness, I would do so in a heartbeat. Nothing, no luminous moments when the world seems more alive, more vibrant, when I can practically see the heartstrings of our earth's core oscillate in the brilliant light, are worth the suffering that this illness brings. More than anything, I'd give up the fear: the fear that in any moment I'll fly off my tightrope and swandive or belly flop into the depths below. Even worse, the fear that I'll bring someone with me, someone I love, that I'll ruin him forever with the darkness, the complexity, and the despair that these ups and downs inevitably bring.
This realization caused me to reflect on this brilliant post about bipolar disorder and the artistic temperament. The author lists notable artists that were severely mentally ill, many of whom took their own life: Van Gogh, Hemingway, Plath, Cobain, McQueen, Woolf. She discusses a common conception that being bipolar is somehow glamorous, that illness enabled these brilliant minds to produce even more brilliant work. Here is an excerpt from Woolf's suicide note:
"I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. . . I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. . . I can’t read."
I can't read. Woolf, as always, captures the heart of the matter. Imagine Virginia Woolf, master of the written word, the rapturous sentence, the heartwrenching characters, not being able to read. Unable to read, to process, to feel the world because of the "terrible times" she'd had to endure. In her life, in her ouvre, and her death, she expresses my answer to this question: maybe being bipolar provides moments of brilliant madness, but it also provides moments when you can't read.
1) I'm not sure if my RSS feed works, but I know that if you subscribe via email, you'll get an email everytime I post. So I encourage you to do that if you want to follow me - it's quick, easy, and unobstrusive.
2) I appreciate the comments, emails, etc. that both help me improve the blog and motivate me to continue writing - so if you read and appreciate this effort I'd love to hear from you.
One of the themes I've noticed as I look back over my blog is acceptance. How and when does one accept, and even embrace, her mental illness? When is acceptance giving up and when is it the ultimate victory? When is it a crucial step in recovery and when is it a paralyzing blow?
I've been thinking about a simple question: If I could go back in time and undo my bipolar disorder, would I?
The sexy answer is no. The popular answer is no. The "accept yourself," "born this way" answer is that I wouldn't change a thing about myself, that there are pros and cons about this illness but that at the end of the day, I accept myself with all my shades of grey and black and blue. Of course, you'd never tell someone with cancer that they were "born that way," but people with mental illnesses hear things like, "you're so lucky to feel manic sometimes," or "it must be really great to feel the world so intensely," or "maybe being bipolar isn't so bad after all" all. the. time.
If I could keep my personality, my family, my life situation, and give up my mental illness, I would do so in a heartbeat. Nothing, no luminous moments when the world seems more alive, more vibrant, when I can practically see the heartstrings of our earth's core oscillate in the brilliant light, are worth the suffering that this illness brings. More than anything, I'd give up the fear: the fear that in any moment I'll fly off my tightrope and swandive or belly flop into the depths below. Even worse, the fear that I'll bring someone with me, someone I love, that I'll ruin him forever with the darkness, the complexity, and the despair that these ups and downs inevitably bring.
This realization caused me to reflect on this brilliant post about bipolar disorder and the artistic temperament. The author lists notable artists that were severely mentally ill, many of whom took their own life: Van Gogh, Hemingway, Plath, Cobain, McQueen, Woolf. She discusses a common conception that being bipolar is somehow glamorous, that illness enabled these brilliant minds to produce even more brilliant work. Here is an excerpt from Woolf's suicide note:
"I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. . . I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. . . I can’t read."
I can't read. Woolf, as always, captures the heart of the matter. Imagine Virginia Woolf, master of the written word, the rapturous sentence, the heartwrenching characters, not being able to read. Unable to read, to process, to feel the world because of the "terrible times" she'd had to endure. In her life, in her ouvre, and her death, she expresses my answer to this question: maybe being bipolar provides moments of brilliant madness, but it also provides moments when you can't read.
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