Seeking Empowerment Through Bipolar Disorder

by M. P.
(Edgewater, MD )

For many years I lived a life both at the mercy of severe depression and the awesome highs of bipolar I disorder. My moods dictated the successes and failures of relationships, problems in school, issues in my career and employment. Although it was difficult, I succeeded in obtaining a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Communication Design and a Master of Fine Arts in Photography. I persevered and ultimately achieved my goal of employment at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C. where I worked for fourteen years. But the road was rocky and my behavior often self-destructive.

I began to have moderate to severe mood swings about the time I turned fifteen. I had no clue what was happening; my mother simply told me I was a “moody person,” which I accepted without question. There was no reason to believe there was anything wrong with me. During those years I often battled the black demon of depression, and medicated myself regularly with various illicit drugs as a way to escape from the inner pain and desperation for relief. I became preoccupied with death and often contemplated suicide. While I was obsessed with death, I was also a survivor; and although I contemplated suicide, I never made an actual attempt. Despite the periods of deep depression, relief always came.

The flipside of the depression was glorious; the times when I was riding high and life was rich with promise --those marvelous manic and hypo manic periods when creative passions flowed freely in my poetry and my art. I became well known in my small high school for my artistic endeavors. There was absolutely no question as to what direction I was headed. I was going to become a visual artist. I not only had the talent but I had the mercurial, tortured and tormented soul stereotypically reserved for writers, poets and artists.

I was not diagnosed with bipolar I disorder until much later in life. Through no choice of my own I rode the perpetual roller coaster that is bipolar disorder. In 2004, after two “vacations” in the psych ward, I was finally diagnosed bipolar I. The psychiatrist I saw after my release tried various medications. There was no significant improvement. Although I was dissatisfied with my treatment, it took me nearly two years to seek another doctor. Fortunately, when I decided, it didn’t take very long to find a second psychiatrist. He has been absolutely wonderful. He is kind, empathetic but will also cut to the chase with regard to any self-destructive or unhealthy behavior. He has always been there in times of crisis. He is conservative with medication, meaning he does not hand out pills like they’re m & m’s. He listens to my concerns and adjusts medication as needed. In my opinion he is worth a million dollars.

Then, in 2008, after a series of bouts with hypomania, one episode of acute mania and several bouts of depression, I began psychotherapy for a second time. As with my psychiatrist, the therapist I found was another perfect match. If there was one suggestion I would make to those diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it would be to spend as much time as necessary looking for a psychiatrist and therapist, no matter how long it takes. Both these psychiatric professionals play a key role in helping maintain overall stability.

An event in June 2009 changed my life and how I now deal with my bipolar illness. I was involuntarily committed on June 15th of last year. I had been depressed for weeks. Although I was seeing my psychiatrist, the reintroduction of an antidepressant did nothing to lift me out of the clutches of the deep dark depression in which I was immersed. As was in the past, my thoughts eventually turned to desire to end the pain, despair and hopelessness. I made a suicide plan and spent two weeks in preparation for the chosen day. I created a suicide video, wrote a will, signed a contract to have my body “harvested” for medical education and research.

Fate intervened that night, and I was taken, in handcuffs, to a local medial center by the local police (The medical center did not have a psychiatric ward). The next day I was transferred to another hospital but refused treatment from the staff psychiatrist. The day after that I was taken by ambulance to hospital #3. The second “behavioral unit” in which I found myself was a pitiful excuse for the treatment of psychological disorders. This time, fearful of where I would be sent next, I wisely chose not to be adversarial.

In the unit there were no group therapy sessions. There were no meetings on such things as alcohol or substance abuse. In fact, there was nothing but medication and very brief meetings with a staff psychiatrist. Patients were given no information about local (county) or state mental health services, support groups or other organizations.

When I was released, I reflected on my experience at this suburban Washington DC hospital’s “behavioral unit.” I became very angry at the lack of care that patients received. I had some clue of what proper mental health care ought to be, having the benefit of being hospitalized previously. When I met with my psychiatrist a day after I was released, I told him I was considering filing a complaint. He discouraged me from doing so, telling me that the effort would not only be futile but it would be a waste of time and energy. Undaunted, I spent several hours writing a complaint to the director of the behavioral services unit, succinctly addressing the unit’s shortcomings. I knew that my complaint would fall on deaf ears, but I felt compelled to have my say – not just for myself, but for the individual’s who lived in the county where the hospital was located; those who had the misfortune to have only one psychiatric facility from which to receive treatment.

I waited two weeks. When I received no reply I followed up with a second letter, reiterating my former complaints, but this time threatening to go to the local media. Three weeks later I received a reply, inviting me to meet with the hospital’s medical director, the director of the unit, the staff psychiatrist who treated me, along with two psychiatric nurses. I agreed to the meeting. None to my surprise, it was a travesty. They “concocted” an evaluation form that was clearly taken from some other published source, along with a daily schedule that showed group therapy sessions, art therapy sessions and other activities –- none of which occurred while I was a patient there. One of the psychiatric nurses told me I had signed as attending 7 group therapy sessions. What the staff had done was to falsify my records after the fact; the implication being that I was “mentally unstable.” In effect, their little coalition silenced me. Although I was saddened that these people, all working in the medical profession – who were supposedly there to “help” people with an “illness,” not only lied about the treatment patients were receiving, but suffered no guilt for their actions. My experience at this hospital was a catalyst that has radically changed my life. Although my complaint yielded no change, I still came away feeling empowered.

Three months later, with encouragement from my therapist, my psychiatrist, and the introduction of more intense cognitive-behavioral therapy, I began to really work on modifying my distorted thought patterns, self-destructive behavior and thus began a new proactive approach to how I am living my life.

In retrospect, the miserable stay in that behavioral unit was a blessing in disguise. I have begun to take prerequisite classes in pursuit of either a Masters of Social Work or a Ph.D. in Psychology. No matter which avenue I take, it is my goal to become a therapist. In addition, because of my past substance abuse, I would like to volunteer at a clinic.

I have spent a good amount of time recently reflecting on my life and my struggle with having been diagnosed with bipolar I disorder. In my opinion, staying healthy with bipolar disorder is sort of like juggling. One has to be aware of stressors and triggers that can set off episodes. Maintaining a regular sleep schedule is another necessity. One must also have a safety net of friends and family -- not only for times of crisis, but for social interaction as well. Daily exercise is important, not just for the body, but also for the mind. For me, my border collie Zack plays an important role in helping me stay well. He is a high-energy dog who gets me outdoors no matter the weather, gives me “unconditional love,” regardless of my mood –and, yes, one must not overlook the sloppy doggie kisses. He is like a “prescription” for maintaining my mental health. While bipolar disorder is like any other chronic illness, it’s a test of our strengths and weakness. I intend to remain standing, and look forward to the day when I can help others as others have helped me.