Determined to Help Others Along the Path Through Life

Determined to Help Others Along the Path Through Life
By Steven Alvarez, Intern, Urban Justice Center's Mental Health Project

Finding Purpose During the Good and the Bad Times

I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. If it weren’t for my own struggles, and meeting many peers with the same issues, I would never have gotten into this work. One friend that I met, Faigy Mayer, would ultimately set me forth on a new path in life, to work in mental health. I met Faigy during this transitional phase of my life. When she died, it only fueled me deeper along my path.

Growing up, I remember being terribly shy and not having many friends. I grew up in a hostile environment in which my dad (although I love him to this day) was physically and verbally abusive to my mother. I ended up inheriting his anger.

One day I stopped doing my homework. I couldn’t find the motivation, and worried that the kids at school would make fun of me. So rather than face the embarrassment I stayed at home. Eventually my mother took me to see the guidance counselor at school. The guidance counselor asked me if I wanted to go to class. Since I feared my classmates, I got angry and knocked everything off of her desk. She called the police, and when they came, I wouldn’t talk to them. They took me to a hospital, in which I was later admitted. I would live with the label of “crazy” from that point forward. I was only ten years old.

I began to act out and live by my own rules. I wasn’t the class clown; I was the class terror. Cursing out the professors, getting into fights, cutting class, smoking weed, and the like. I even remember getting picked on by the special-ed students and fighting back in the craziest ways possible to make them leave me alone. I was getting bullied, and unfortunately, to fit in, I was also a bully.

During this point, I was put on one of the most powerful drugs on the market called Clozaril, an atypical antipsychotic, usually used as a last ditch effort to treat the most severe cases of psychosis. Its list of side-effects are horrendous, but the worst required me to take a blood test to check my white blood cell count. Besides killing off my white blood cells, my weight ballooned to 300 pounds.

When I was taken off Clozaril my life changed. I suddenly became a new person, mentally and physically. My therapist describes me as waking up, as if a whole new person arrived, as if I had been living in a bubble all these years. My life started to transform. I became more socially active, lost 100 pounds, gained friends, and a girlfriend. Amazing things started to happen.

I relapsed in 2011 and was hospitalized three times that year. I emerged with a new vision, but unfortunately I was heavily medicated, and regained all of the weight I had lost. Still set on my mission, I eventually got off of another antipsychotic, Zyprexa, and lost the hundred pounds once again.

During this time, I ran support groups, threw the craziest parties, hiked, bowled, played pool, anything and everything, with a group of friends I will love for life. I credit two “Meetup” groups for my recovery: NYCDSG (New York City Depression Support Group) and, first and foremost, the New York Shyness and Social Anxiety Meetup Group. Through these social interactions I have lived several lifetimes in a matter of years. 

In January of 2016, I enrolled in the Howie the Harp Peer Advocacy Program. The training was like no other. Every day was a struggle, but also a gift. I began to realize that all of the things I went through had a meaning and purpose. I needed to suffer so that I could help decrease the suffering of others. The training was awesome and the people I met even more so. 

One day a friend messaged me about an Open Mic Night hosted by the Urban Justice Center, the law office I’m currently writing from. If I learned anything, it is that experiences, both good and bad, will prepare you for the future. Sometimes in life, our future works out based upon our plans and sometimes it doesn't. I often reminisce about my friend Faigy, and the times I went to visit her in the hospital. I know she would want me to continue to help others as I helped her and to never let go.

My Experience Has a Name

My Experience Has a Name
By Donald Wayne
Doctor “P” Came Along to Name It
Help came in fits and starts over a lifetime of mental illness, which began in the 1960s while in my middle grades. It has been a journey marked by compassionate people and stunning luck. Understanding my illness came over decades of having to piece it all together. Looking back over the years, I can see the evolution of my life narrative.
I'm not sure what my age or grade in school was. The time period is hazy for me to determine. Perhaps it was sixth or seventh grade. I was having a terrible time at school and was miserable. When lunchtime came around I would be my own company, separating myself from the other children. I was anxious. People called it my “nerve problem.” I felt as if I were all alone. Indeed, nobody seemed to comprehend my situation. No one thought it was anything but nerves, at the very least an illness.
My mother was my first advocate. She came to wake me for school one morning and found me lying in bed, as stiff as a piece of lumber, with the sheet stretched taut between my teeth. Many years later, my mother told me she could slip her hand easily beneath the arch of my back.
Something was clearly wrong. She phoned my father at work. “There’s nothing wrong with Wayne,” Dad said. That wasn’t acceptable. Mother called our physician, Doctor “E,” who recommended a psychiatrist in a city fifty miles away.
My sessions went on for years with diminishing returns for the amount of time spent with Doctor “M,” my psychiatrist. Medicine was prescribed, but with no understanding of my condition. He had told my parents that I would have a family, but would never make it through college.
I started college in the late 1970s and did well. Away from the stress of parents and bullies in school, I thrived. I transferred to a university in the piney woods of Texas, a place which I loved, and still do. I had been taking courses in photography, which I later majored in. I remember that day well.
It was a slightly chilly but clear cobalt blue day as I arrived on campus. I was beside the white stone four-story library when a “thought” came, telling me terrible things about myself again and again. I could not make it stop. I lived with these voices and the increasing paranoia until one lucky break.
I was to go see Doctor “F” to have my medicine refilled, but for some reason he couldn’t make it to my appointment. That’s when Doctor “P” entered my life. Talking to this kind physician with his big eyes and tall frame who asked me leading questions, I had the courage to ask about the “thoughts” that were torturing me, which I did not understand.
Consequently, I learned Doctor “P” had once been an army doctor with special training in the area of schizophrenia, which he thought I had. I was not expecting help, and certainly not this. But I was relieved, if somewhat bewildered, at discovering my situation had a name.
Doctor “P” helped me deal with my schizophrenia for a decade. Tragically, for many people, this man who meant so much to so many of us, died in an accident. I then became the patient of  physician Doctor “R” for the next decade. In him, I would find a man, distinguished, knowledgeable and a friend.
Doctor “R” would spend plenty of time with me, allowing room to ask questions unhurriedly, a contrast from the several minutes people in my situation typically get. He once offered to take me to a good Dallas restaurant and buy me a steak if I lost weight. I didn’t, though I wished that I had, if just to spend time with Doctor “R,” for he would leave my town after a decade or so. I think he was in the military guard.
Receiving assistance from the Texas Department of Mental Health and Mental Retardation was the last piece of the puzzle. I had lost my job and needed help. Since then, I have had several therapists, all very good. After six years, I am getting to the bottom of my severe anxiety.
Along with the concern and helpfulness of these medical professionals, it seems that there has been an element of luck with me throughout the years. My doctors and family all stepped in when they could help, combined with my own initiative, as well. I thank God for them all.

The Clubhouse Brought Out the Best in Me

The Clubhouse Brought Out the Best in Me

By Arturo Soto

Though It Was a Struggle to Get There

I was but a small lad of ten feeling the pull of changing hormones, with puberty fast approaching, when I first started showing signs of schizophrenia. The outgoing, happy little boy who spent his summer days hunting praying mantises and grasshoppers in a huge abandoned lot near home was withdrawing more and more. No one paid any mind since I was always alone and aloof, even with my own room in a family of five children.

No one noticed my staying indoors for days on end during the hot summer months or staying up all hours of the night. Eventually, my disconnecting from the outside world led to hallucinations. Suicidal thoughts were developing in my mind, as I longed to be released from the growing dark solitude taking over my life. All of this was in sharp contrast to the brilliant summer sun illuminating my bed near the window where I found myself sleeping more and more. During the final week of July 1979 things came to a serious conclusion when I attempted suicide.

Over the following two years I did well, fueled by the thrill of starting high school and getting some nice female attention in a school that specialized in music and art. Unfortunately, I got involved with a religious group near my home. This may have triggered my disconnecting. I transferred from my current high school to one closer to home to be near the people in the religious group. 

Eventually, the “religious” people who I thought were my friends changed on me as they looked upon the things I enjoyed as sinful. Next thing I knew I was being treated as an outcast. I started feeling more isolated, keeping to myself, skipping out on school, spending more time alone in my room. 

Around 1986, I started seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis who put me on medication. He also emphasized my strengths, specifically my artistic skills. He was impressed by my bizarre Lovecraftian-style drawings, which I created while attending the High School of Music and Art. 

In 1989, I met my sister’s future husband who introduced me to computers.

It was another miraculous life-changing moment as I sat in front of my Commodore Amiga 500 home computer. I found myself instinctively getting into computers with the help of my ever-present brother-in-law. It was an amazing thing to be able to do pretty much anything I wanted on a computer from creating music, drawing, doing some coding with AMOS, writing short stories and poetry, to working on 3D renderings and CAD programs. 

Eventually, my mother helped me find an apartment in the projects, but my stay there was brief due to my mental illness and the bad neighborhood. Thanks to my therapist, I was moved out of that negative setting and into a housing program for the mentally ill called GEEL Community Services. It was like the doors of my dreams had finally opened and anything I wanted to do in life felt possible.

Where I was once shunned, I was now welcomed. Where I once felt the only place I could exist happily was in my room, now I knew there was a place in the world for me. Thanks to GEEL Community Services, I found my way into the welcoming clubhouse circuit. The GEEL clubhouse eventually changed hands about ten years later becoming Fountain House. 

Fountain House has given me a sense of groundedness which caused me to realize and utilize my strengths. Thanks to Fountain House, I have once more begun to write on a regular basis beyond just using the Internet when at home, and computers for a new enjoyable hobby. It’s a good feeling to be praised and thanked outside of gaming forums for my writing skills. It is as if my presence has expanded in a more positive way, being face-to-face with people rather than facing a computer monitor. 

Fountain House, along with my housing program GEEL, has taught me what a valuable and enriching gift being proactive is, where I can act on what I know instead of waiting for it to happen on its own. They have shown and instilled in me the confidence that I’m capable of pulling my own weight and living a fuller, more productive and comfortable life. All I need is to just get out there and do it.

How a Peer Support Training Program Transformed My Life

How a Peer Support Training Program Transformed My Life

By Emily

Peers Understand Where You Are Coming From

I always had this feeling that I was not good enough, despite putting my all into school, gymnastics, running, and art. In fact, I felt I must be bad and needed to be punished. That’s when I started hurting myself.

In retrospect, I excelled at sports, was on the honor roll and received special awards at graduation. Somehow, I was never satisfied with my accomplishments. I graduated high school hiding everything. But the summer leading up to college was when things started falling apart. Whatever was “my fault” led to self-harm and inner-pain. I made it to college, but only for a short while. Soon after heading off on my own, I was sent to the hospital and that was the end of that. So began my life as a patient.

I entered a program that was supposed to help me, yet I was isolated, medicated and told that everything I was doing was wrong. This worsened my condition. “I’m bad, I deserve to be punished” was my motto.

I went through one hospitalization after another, until the day I was told I needed 24-hour supervision and was sent to Pilgrim State Psychiatric Hospital. I felt I would never be ‘normal’ again.

After months of one-to-one supervision, medication and everything else that came with being hospitalized, I decided to shut up, comply and act like a ‘good patient’ in order to be released. I was let out and sent to a group home. A few months later, after a suicide attempt, I was back at Pilgrim Hospital by court order.

At Pilgrim, I was often forced to take medication to make me more docile. If I didn’t comply, I was restrained in the seclusion room and given a shot to “calm me down.” I was always on one-to-one and experienced anxiety attacks every time I was naked or needed to use the toilet in front of the stranger assigned to me, so I avoided showers and bathrooms at all costs. Their most degrading and memorable solution were laxatives.

When they felt the medications weren’t working, I was told I needed electroshock treatment (ECT), and that, since I was too young to make decisions about my treatment, they made the decision for me. I was 21-years-old.

The ECT caused brain damage. I developed epilepsy and still have learning and memory problems. Along with the loss of some painful memories went the loss of recalling a great deal of the wonderful people, things and experiences throughout my life. Was it worth it? While at Pilgrim State, I witnessed forced treatment, neglect and confinement. After my two-year stay, I went back to a group home, day treatment and more meds than you can count on your hands and feet.

I resigned myself to the fact that I was a full-time psychiatric patient. I cut and burned my body until there was only scar tissue. I overdosed and ingested anything toxic, hoping it would be the end. I planned and attempted suicide on multiple occasions. Like clockwork, I would be in and out of the hospital every few months. I felt alone. I was dependent upon medication, couldn’t hold a job and had trouble in school. I had a terrible self-image. Then came the stigma. I was no longer Emily. I was an illness: major depressive disorder, bipolar, schizoaffective. Whatever they labeled me, I became.

My metamorphosis began while I was interviewing to get into a class that trained peer supporters. I anticipated not being accepted into the class and began perfecting my suicide and how I would be presented at my funeral. My doctor was worried about me and sent me to the hospital as a suicide risk. I was there for two weeks and while I was there, found out that I was accepted into the class. I was discharged from the hospital and the next day started my class.

My new friendships, relationships and experiences all began to matter to me. The real Emily buried beneath the darkness began to emerge. I was breaking out of my shell, playing music, singing, dancing and socializing. I learned so much sitting in a small room all day with peers who understood where I was coming from. They helped and inspired me. I discovered that I was not alone. If I chose to, I could use my experiences to help others, which I did and have continued to do. Everything I went through was not a waste of time—it was precious knowledge I could pass on to someone like the old Emily, who thinks she's a bad person, who thinks she can’t do something, who needs a voice.

The world works in strange and mysterious ways. I went through hell so I could appreciate the wonderful things I have now and all that I’ve worked for. These days I’m a peer supporter, an advocate and a member of society, not the system. I’m living with my wonderful boyfriend, have a job, volunteer, and am an independent woman doing things on my own. I’m finally unstuck and still moving forward. Recovery is a bumpy road with many potholes, but it’s much better than being stuck in the ditch I thought I’d never climb out of.

Pullout: “I’m finally unstuck and still moving forward. Recovery is a bumpy road with many potholes, but it’s much better than being stuck in the ditch I thought I’d never climb out of.”

Mental Illness Detoured My Salvation

Mental Illness Detoured My Salvation

By Akala

Today I'm Reaching Out to Jesus

I am 60-years-old and was recently diagnosed with bipolar schizoaffective disorder. The illness did not surface until September of 2013. As a child, I did have some learning problems, anger issues and anxiety, although my problems went untreated. I was considered a rebellious child. I was raised in poverty with an alcoholic father.

In 2010, I began attending a Pentecostal church where the supernatural powers of the Holy Spirit were believed and altar calls were always toward the end of the service. I have been anointed by the Holy Spirit and slain in the spirit twice. This is significant because before it happened to me I thought that phenomena was all faked. I can assure you that for me it was not. I gained a lot of faith and became very obedient to God. I had lived a life full of sin before I gave my life to Jesus and accepted Him as my lord and savior. I didn't stop sinning all at once, but changed gradually, for which I am thankful.

My delusions began after experiencing years of my largely untreated stress and depression. I would take anti-depressants inconsistently. I considered my depression circumstantial and didn't feel the need to take medication on a regular basis. My anxiety increased at times which made shopping difficult as well as being around a lot of people. I enjoyed living a sheltered life but did not have many friends.

I share this because my delusions, voices and hallucinations have all been centered on God, Jesus, angels, demons, Satan and even aliens. Although being on medication has curtailed this, I still believe in alien beings from other worlds. The evidence is too overwhelming for me not to believe that there are beings from other planets visiting us. I personally have not experienced visitations, but many other people have.

During some of my delusions I have choked myself and hit myself in the face. God and Jesus would tell me I was ungodly and repulsive. I made several trips to the hospital thinking that God was trying to kill me. Feelings I had throughout my body convinced me I was having a heart attack. Each time they diagnosed me with anxiety. The hospital didn't recognize that I was having delusions and hallucinations until later when I called in to the police department that I thought there was a bomb planted in my apartment building and some ex-coworkers were trying to kill me. I also called them again a few weeks later with the delusion that demons had given me anthrax and that I was bleeding to death internally.

I started working at a music company in August of 2014 that employed several people who were Satanists. My delusions and hallucinations began in September. I thought I was in the middle of a battle between good and evil because I was a Christian and they worshiped Satan. I could actually see and feel attacks by demons and Satan while I was employed there. I was fired from that job because the attacks in my mind seemed so real and even physical that I would get sick and have to leave. One day it felt like a steam roller was in my head and I think that my blood pressure had gotten dangerously high. We have the ability to make ourselves physically sick from mental illness.

I will not describe my many other embarrassing delusions. I still carry a great deal of shame, although I had absolutely no control over what was happening to me. I am trying to repair the damage that was done to my family because of my illness. More importantly, I am reaching out to Jesus once again because I feel as if I have lost my salvation. Sometimes it is very difficult to read God's word, but I will not give up. I want the relationship I had with our Father in heaven and His son Jesus before I became ill. I had great peace and became someone that I could be proud of; not full of pride, just grateful that Jesus had worked a miracle in me and changed me. I never want to return to a life full of sin, and I have Jesus to thank for that along with the workings of the Holy Spirit within me.

If you are experiencing a health issue, whether it be physical or mental or even both, I strongly encourage you to give your life to Jesus and let Him help you through it all.

Pullout: “I want the relationship I had with our Father in heaven and His son Jesus before I became ill.”

My Healing Journey

My Healing Journey 

By Adam Stone

How Accepting Jesus Saved My Life

In 1993, at the age of 29, I began to experiment with meth-amphetamine. I got hooked immediately. I spent all hours hanging out with the wrong crowd in a nocturnal underworld. This was the drug that brought me to my knees and opened the doors to schizophrenia.

After a few weeks without sleep and completely insane behavior, a friend took me to a psych ward where they shot me up with thorazine and strapped me down to the bed with restraints. I was diagnosed with meth-amphetamine psychosis and thus began the revolving door of psychiatric hospitals and medications.

I became homeless and wandered the streets for a few weeks, but eventually found my way into a group home and enrolled in a local community college. I took English and typing classes and did well. Soon optimism returned to me and I began to make plans for my future again. I still held onto the hope that my life would amount to something.

I was obsessed with trying to find a way to deal with my illness. I went to a lake shrine to meet with a yogi monk, studied the Koran and Zen and consulted with a Kabbalistic Rabbi. I called Jews for Jesus and tried to fathom the Tao. I sampled guided meditation tapes, repeated mantras, practiced deep breathing and hypnosis. I wrote to an Indian Shaman and read “The Power of Positive Thinking.” I listened to Anthony Robbins and other motivational gurus. I combed bookstores looking for answers in self-help books. I called the Arch Diocese office for an exorcism, but they told me I had to be levitating. I even sought help from an alien abduction specialist.

Occasionally, the subject of Jesus would come up, and I would dismiss it as being for others but not for me. I thought Jesus was ridiculous and those who followed him were fanatical Jesus freaks. I believed the resurrection was fiction, the bible old wives tales, and that Jesus was just a wise man, and certainly not God.

In 2002, I decided to move to New York to start a new life. I went to what would be my last psych ward. I was released and moved into a quiet group home on the Upper West Side and attended a day program. After graduating from my day program, my father agreed to pay for culinary school. I went on to serve as an extern at many of New York’s finest restaurants. I was then hired as a Garde Manger (French for "keeper of the food") at a restaurant on the Upper West Side that eventually went out of business.

I was still searching for answers, attending synagogue occasionally, but felt uninspired.

One night, after an AA meeting, I went out to dinner with a new friend. I told him I felt like I was dealing with spiritual warfare. He turned to me, and, for some reason, I knew what he was going to say. He said, “You need something more powerful than AA. You need Jesus.”

I knew it was a pivotal moment. A few days later I attended a small church in the Bronx and accepted Jesus as my Lord and savior. It was 2008.

As a young Jewish man, going to Jesus is about as rebellious as one can get. A Jewish family would almost rather you become a Buddhist, or Hindu, than to give your life to Christ. It took the gift of desperation to accept Jesus as my Lord and savior.

A pastor suggested a wonderful church in Times Square. I dove right in and signed up for New Believers classes and received water baptism. For the first time in so many years I felt less alone. My new friends understood spiritual warfare. I felt some sense of peace and comfort.

I am here to tell you that, as a man who had no faith, no belief, was condescending, full of conceit, arrogance, sin, pride, and rationalized everything, Jesus changed my life.

Coming to Jesus did not disqualify me from trials and tribulations. Coming to Jesus also didn’t mean all would be smooth sailing. I continued to be tested in the furnace of affliction.

I am now involved in three different ministries at church. Most of my life revolves around church. God has placed a burden on my heart to work with those suffering from mental illness. AA says that my experience can help benefit others. I want to give back what was so freely given to me.

“Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury, pardon. Where there is discord, harmony. Where there is error, truth. Where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope. Where there is darkness, light. And where there is sadness, joy.

“O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”— Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi.

Pullout: “He turned to me, and, for some reason, I knew what he was going to say. He said, 'You need something more powerful than AA. You need Jesus.'”

Recovery From An Illness Best Kept Secret For Now

Recovery From An Illness Best Kept Secret For Now

By Katalin

There Were Many Steps

I attribute my recovery from mental illness to sound psychiatric counsel, positive lifestyle changes and consistent medication management. I have been stabilized for the past ten years, but things were not always this good, particularly before my diagnosis. Although I am delighted with my stabilization, my triumph over mental illness is wrought with certain medical problems due to the side effects of the medication I am taking. However hard these impediments might be, they have not deterred me from leading a rich and full life as a means to combat the negative effects of a possible relapse of my mental illness.

The psychosis I endured snuck up on me quite stealthily. At first it was just some voices here and there, then images and later delusions. I grappled with these bizarre thoughts for about a year until I was admitted to the in-patient unit at Payne Whitney Clinic. It was during my three week stay that I was diagnosed for the first time with late onset paranoid schizophrenia at the age of 44. When I was psychotic, I was very frightened because I knew what hearing voices meant medically—a psychiatric problem. I was also in a state of denial as I had never experienced symptoms before. I was very afraid that if I were admitted to a hospital, I would end up like my father, who also has this disease and has been institutionalized for over 40 years.

Once I was discharged from the inpatient unit, I thought I was home free. My psychiatrist said “not so fast.” I attended PW’s Continued Day Treatment Program where I was immersed for nine months in numerous helpful workshops. I did make some lasting friendships there. Once I was finished with the program I was positive I would be allowed to stay home. Again, not so. My psychiatrist strongly urged me to attend group therapy. I joined a group organized for other schizophrenic patients and was in the group for a year and a half. I was stabilized and ready to move on to a full schedule of extra-curricular activities.

Despite all the hard work everybody does for psychiatric patients at Payne Whitney Clinic, I probably would never have recovered successfully were it not for the medication I take every single day. What has also really helped is that I also stopped drinking and smoking. When I learnt from my doctor that alcohol and nicotine have adverse effects on the chemical interaction of the psychotropic medications and the brain’s chemistry, I decided to quit. Stopping drinking was harder than smoking, but after several attempts, I was able to stop both. Today, I move freely among people who drink and smoke without difficulty. Where I have trouble is with the physical problems I am experiencing with the neuroleptics I am taking. I have gained weight and this has led to some other medical problems. I am watching and managing my medical problems, but compared to the active symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, these side effects are a small price to pay for my newly discovered “normalcy.”

My psychiatrists who have been treating me in the past were concerned about my lack of structure in my life. What they meant was that they would like to see me busy during the weekday. They were concerned that given my schizophrenia, this would lead to isolation and possible relapse. I have been attending concerts and shows, volunteering in a civic organization, doing my chores and writing. I also work out at a gym 4 days a week.

There are two drawbacks as I see it. One has to do with being unemployed when I am with others who are employed and the other has to do with disclosure about my mental illness. I choose not to disclose my mental illness to most people because of the stigma that is still associated with schizophrenia.

Be that as it may, I have had ten years to master the delicate balance of living in the world of “normals’ and interacting with the mentally ill. Sometimes I feel like I am living the life of a charade, but regrettably I cannot disclose to the public about my mental illness at this time. The circles in which I move are not ready for such a declaration. What I am grateful for are the good people at PWC who show kindness and respect toward people like us. I have never heard anyone call me a wacko, schizo, psycho, crazy, or a lunatic behind my back. And I hope I never will. My experience has taught me that in my transformation from psychotic person to stabilized individual there was something in life that was lost forever, but also tangible things that were equally gained for an eternity.

My Mystic Bipolar Autobiography

My Mystic Bipolar Autobiography

By David Dalton

How I Reconciled My Mystical with My Mental Health Experiences

In this article I claim that my mood cycles have been affected by lunar and solar cycles, and that I am similar to some past major pagan and non-pagan religious figures.

In 1986 at age 22, during a low year of the 11-year sunspot cycle, I suffered a long mild depression. It was treated first with desipramine, which didn't work and had too many side effects, and then with nortriptylene, which eventually worked but did cause my only epileptic seizure that December.

Early in September of 1991, while organizing orientation week activities at the University of British Columbia Graduate Student Centre, (having been inspired by musician-songwriter Sarah McLachlan and some others, and having experienced shaktipat from my yoga teacher), I went into my first manic episode. It began with a shower of ideas early on September 1^st, and culminated in a naked sun stare, thorn hill climb, and blue rose vision on September 5^th and 6^th.

Just before my manic episode started, I witnessed some clear sky lightning, which I relate to an M-class solar flare that took place two days prior. This manic episode occurred during a waning crescent moon in a high year of the 11-year sunspot cycle. During the sun stare, I observed a curved tunnel effect, like a divine horn of oil with its wide mouth toward me, and then giant butterfly wings of space folding in on me. Then I blacked out and fell into the water.

After this experience, I remained at a mental health ward for five weeks while my lithium level was adjusted. In May of 1992, during a waxing gibbous moon, I smoked a marijuana joint on Wreck Beach intending to relax. Instead, I went into a mixed/psychotic episode resulting in a week-long hospitalization. I emerged from this stint on 5mg of haloperidol per day, in addition to the lithium. In early July 1992, during an early waxing moon, I had a suicidal period which ceased when my psychiatrist told me to come off haloperidol. After that, I would only use haloperidol as needed and on rare occasions.

In the next two and a half years I experienced three more waxing gibbous moon trials, triggered by alcohol use, and three waning crescent hypomanias with onset 5.5 lunar months after each waxing gibbous moon trial onset. Based on the first two 5.5 lunar month separations, I predicted the late August/early September 1994 high.

After the March 1994 trial I gave up drinking alcohol during the week before a full moon but continued to drink at other phases with no ill effects. I had one more waning crescent high in early July 1994 that did not have a waxing gibbous moon trial precursor, but like the others had an M-class solar flare two days prior. Similar to the September 1991 high, my June 1993 high and August-September 1994 high had clear sky lightning at their onsets. The early January 1994 high occurred during highly variable weather. The highs were pleasant and characterized by playfulness and creativity accompanied by a feeling of mystical connectedness within nature. The trials were unpleasant and characterized by a feeling of the world turning sour around me.

Beginning early in 1996, I entered into low years. They were low in terms of creativity, at times in terms of mild depression and anxiety, and at other times in terms of delusion and even paranoia. For some past figures such low years seem to have lasted seven years, but for me they have lasted 18.5 years (as of July 29, 2014). So far, I think since I have had modern medicines, and since lifespans are longer today on average, it could be that my low years will not last much longer than 18 years (7 years plus an 11 year sunspot cycle). I hope to come out of them soon after this writing date, which is August 20, 2014. But on my current medication regimen, 1250 mg divalproex sodium and 10 mg olanzapine nightly, the low years are not very low except in terms of creativity.

I have also done comparisons of my cycles to those of past figures. The three figures I have the most evidence that I am similar to are Gwion (Taliesin), the Turquoise Bee, and Jesus (the heavens opening and wings descending during Jesus' baptism I liken to my sun stare experience which I described earlier). For more detail on my comparisons to them and several other past figures, and on my mystic bipolar autobiographical details, please do a web search for Salmon on the Thorns.

Bipolar, With a Side Order of Psychosis

Bipolar, With a Side Order of Psychosis

By Jason Matlack, CPS

How My Illness Was a Blessing In Disguise

It's amazing how sometimes the worst things in our lives can become our greatest assets. It isn't the cards we're dealt but the way we play our hand. Who would have thought having mental illness would become the exact thing that has made my life worthwhile.

I never did well in school. When I was young they didn't have all of these diagnoses and tests to discover what was what. Maybe that was a good thing. Even though I always felt like I was failing at a lot of things in my life I never seemed to give up. Without a diagnosis I did not have an excuse to give up.

Growing up I experienced sexual abuse at an early age. I don't know how much of that played a part in my mental illness. That experience and my inability to keep up with my peers in school always made me feel inadequate. Sometimes I would fail tests that I would have passed because I didn't meet the time frame.

I discovered alcohol and marijuana at an early age. When I drank and got high all those feelings of inadequacy went away. In fact, with a little alcohol I became self-confident, or so I thought. I never drank like regular folks from the start. I drank too much and too often.

When not drinking, my self-hatred surfaced and I would say horrible things to myself in the mirror. Sometimes I would do things to hurt myself. I thought about suicide often. Drinking to oblivion was my only release.

I began to drink to the point of blacking out and became violent when drinking. At 19-years-old my verbal abuse turned into an attempt to beat up my girlfriend. I finally sought help in a 12-step program. I was raised in a loving family and thought female abusers were the bottom of the barrel. I moved out on my own, partially blaming my unhappiness.

I couldn't remain sober because of the secrets of the abuse and dysfunction in my childhood. I ended up in rehab and stayed sober for eight years with the help my involvement in a 12-step program. Even then I still didn't fit in. I was able to curb the anger and dealt with my childhood by finding peace and self-forgiveness. But the bipolar mood swings were a constant battle. While in my mid to late twenties I began to experience psychotic episodes. After indulging in the instant gratification of mania, I would then experience great guilt.

Once the psychotic episodes began, I would go super spiritual and hear a voice I thought was God. The business that I had started and ran for fourteen years began to fall apart due to my inability to cope. My wife couldn't take it and we ended up divorcing.

I started drinking again every now and then since my episodes isolated me. But I did not drink much. Instead, I would smoke marijuana. I didn't realize it, but the smoking prevented my psychotic episodes from occurring. Unlike alcohol, marijuana did not cause me to black out or become violent.

By my mid-thirties I lost my business. I went through some sales and management jobs, but manic episodes only caused more compulsive decisions.

When the economy crashed, the time share company I worked for as a marketing manager laid off 50% of the work force. I went into a psychosis that lasted about a year, thinking I was the second coming of Jesus Christ.

When the psychosis broke, I admitted myself to a psychiatric hospital. That was where I was diagnosed and started to receive proper medical care. It is also where I had my “Patch Adams” moment. I knew I wanted to get into the mental health field and help others like myself.

I had a difficult time coming to terms with the guilt from the damage I had caused others with my manic episodes and psychosis. I experienced a lot of anger about being born with this condition and became angry with God. Thoughts of suicide continued to plague me regularly.

I continued in sales, which I hated, but it was the only skill I knew would earn me enough money to survive. After getting laid off from a job selling cars, my therapist told me about a Certified Peer Specialist job, which is someone with a mental health diagnosis who helps others recover from their mental illness and create a better life for themselves.

I have been a Certified Peer Specialist for almost a year now. It is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I thrive on the personal satisfaction of helping others and witnessing their progress. This job is what I was looking for my entire life but was unaware of it. Every day I go to my job with great enthusiasm. If I wouldn't have gone through hell, I would have not found heaven.

All I can say is that to those of you who think you can't, you have to know that you can. To those who are our supporters, do not sell us short. It is through your support and encouragement that we will soar to new heights.

The common threads to those that find a quality life are those that have support, whether it is family, friends or professionals. No one can do this alone. If you do not belong to a support group please find one. There are some that meet in person. If that isn't possible, there are tons of them on the internet. I belong to a few myself. There are also support groups for our supporters. I love you all and good luck on your journey!

It Could Be Worse

It Could Be Worse

By Dave

Successful Sobriety and Stability Aided by a Supportive Family

I don’t know where I would be if it weren't for family. It has been hard on everyone. Was it drugs, kundalini, spirits, or miswired synapses? If my high school had voted on who was most likely to snap, it probably would have been me. I think I would have developed schizophrenia even without marijuana and a few acid trips. There is a family history. The substances just made it worse.

I was an engineering student with potential who acquired a marijuana habit, transferred and dropped out. I had some strange ideas on the road, came back, lived with friends, family, then was hospitalized, back to work for a year, and again hospitalized. Six months after recovering to the point where I could work again for a year, I had a personal crisis and hospitalization. I went to a recovery house and got clean. I remained substance-free, worked for a year, got hospitalized, got my own place, worked for a year, and then rehospitalized. Right now, I’m working, hoping the kinks in my mind and the system have been worked out.

The mental health system is stretched thin and the turnover rate is very high. Even if they had checked on me, no clinician was ever around long enough to get to know the signs of my individual case. Each time, it began with not eating and sleeping, strange synchronicity and hallucinations. I would ditch my job, write people crazy letters, drive my car somewhere without the gas to get back. Where would I be without my family? Certain people could talk me down. They knew when I was losing it and would get me into the hospital before it would turn into jail.

I've had more visual than audio hallucinations. It's like being in a dream state while I'm awake. I know what channel is on, I know what I put in the DVD player, but that’s not it. There is an endless horror movie inside my head.

Things were quiet until I refused medication in 2008. Two weeks later, the internal dialogue became a quagmire. It's difficult to hear the still, small voice when there’s so much noise inside. At least they go away when I'm concentrating on a task like writing or working, or having a good conversation. The doctors will ask if the medications help. At least by now, I know not to stop taking them. Schizoaffective mania happens even when sober and taking meds.

There have been highlights. I was inspired to buy a guitar and have been playing ever since. I have produced some good songs, poems and sketches. I got baptized several years ago, made some friends, lost some friends, been employee of the month and got some raises and bonuses at several jobs. I smoke two packs of cigarettes a day. I work and do odd jobs to pay for them. I've been sober 4.5 years out of five. I’ve been considering completing my general studies degree.

I've put on a lot of weight and been sleeping 12 hours a day since I was put on medication 10 years ago. Right now, it's not so bad. I got my own place, smokes, a job, my family and a few friends who still care. What more could a guy ask for?

Managing My “Gifts”

Managing My “Gifts”

By Ondina

Self-Acceptance is the Key

At the age of 16, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I was suffering long before being formally diagnosed. In 2014, I was diagnosed as a schizophrenic, which I discovered was the answer to all my questions and problems as a child and young adult. It seems I was always this way. Once this became the reality I could no longer run from, I “freaked out.” I was so tired of being a statistic that I tried to deny that I have a mental illness even though it was obvious. I even learned there is a direct line that connects my family background to mental instability. I guess I caught the recessive trait.

I am my mother's namesake, Ondina Hawthorne, and I carry her name with honor now. Ondina Hawthorne was someone I didn’t always identify with. When I started to change my name, I did not realize this was my schizophrenia exposing itself to the masses. I never knew that this wasn’t what the average child goes through. From time to time, my emotional state would fluctuate between very erratic and calm. I would converse with myself and have conversations with what I considered my “imaginary friends.” I suffered physical, verbal, emotional and spiritual abuse, but it was the sexual abuse that introduced me to the more dangerous voices within. There was always the calm one, the gentle one and the thunder. I was scared, I didn’t know how to control what was going on and I didn’t even fully understand what was happening within me. The voices in my head got louder and louder. I felt like I was on fire and I no longer identified with my mirrored self. I attempted suicide many times to stop the burn and to shut off the noise. I thank God He had favor on my life and I am here to share my testimony. I survived.

Fast-forward. After the completion of high school and college, I made very poor choices. Somewhere on my journey, my schizophrenia, depression and anxiety took full control of my life. I was drowning and just wanted to disappear. Dying was my only option according to thunder. I contemplated suicide again. I was 21 years old. I asked God to show me a sign that he was real by asking Him to remove the burden that I was carrying. He did. I didn’t grasp the full understanding that when I was calling on God to help me, I was also asking Him to show me who I really am, what I’m dealing with and how to manage what makes me different from others. Since then I have gotten married to an amazing supportive man and have two wonderful, little, adventurous, vivacious boys. However, there was still much work on my part that needed to be done.

I started to acknowledge that I have a mental illness. I said it aloud to myself. It took me a while to feel comfortable saying it aloud and owning it. I remember telling my husband, “If you no longer want to be with me, I understand, because you didn’t sign up for this.” He replied, “I love you and we are going to get through this.” I revealed to him the names of all the personalities I converse with. I told him that I was institutionalized as a child and had been battling my mental illness for a long time. I explained to him that I needed to be mentally healthy, not just for myself but also for our children. He agreed to help me through my journey toward a sound mind. I opened up to my immediate family members for their support. I never thought that taking the first step to admitting and accepting I have a mental illness was going to be so painful.

My mother told me, “Baby girl, ‘schizophrenia’ is your gift. It is who you are. Don’t try to control it, manage it. Don’t fight against what is, but accept what is. Depression and anxiety will always be there, but once you learn to manage it you will be alright and your story will inspire others to take that leap of faith.” We cried together and I accepted the challenge to start managing my mental illness. I currently sit with a counselor. I pray and I have my medication on standby. I do still feel the burn from time to time, but I am grateful I know how to manage my gifts.

Repeated Tragedies Still Hit Hard

Repeated Tragedies Still Hit Hard

By Regina

Suicide Was My Answer

I have suffered from depression and anxiety for most of my life, but kept it under control by being busy with my family, career and the occasional visit to my therapist. Things came to a head, however, when my husband of twenty-nine years unexpectedly left me.

I was devastated. In spite of the fact that I had my nineteen-year-old son to take care of, I felt as if I did not want to go on living. I started drinking. One night, after several glasses of wine, I took a whole bottle of anti-depressants with the intent of taking my life. Just moments after I took the pills, I realized I wanted to live, and immediately called 911. That was my first suicide attempt.

I kept sinking lower and lower into depression. My performance at work began to suffer. I lost my job and my house. Then my son turned to drugs. But I was fortunate in that I met a wonderful man named Terry who fell in love with me and accepted my son and his addiction as “part of the package.”

Things began looking up. I was able to find another job, though at a much lower level of salary and responsibility. Then six months into that job, my drinking and depression led to frequent absences from work and I lost the position. I still missed my ex-husband and my house, perhaps more because of the lifestyle I led when I was married than because of a broken heart.

When I lost my new job I sank into a deep depression and my drinking became out of control. One evening, when my son and Terry were out, I drank a bottle of wine and took a full bottle of Clonazepam (Klonopin). Did I want to end my life? I still don’t know to this day what my intentions really were, I just knew that I wanted the pain to end.

I awoke one week later in a psychiatric ward on my way back from an ECT treatment. I had been conscious before that moment, but had no memory of it. And I had no recollection of consenting to ECT. I was told afterward that my doctor held a family meeting with myself included to make the decision to go with ECT, as I was unresponsive to other treatment.

The ECT treatments made all the difference and brought me back to some level of functionality. The important thing was that I was happy my suicide attempt was unsuccessful. I realized how my drinking and taking prescription drugs indiscriminately could have resulted in my death. I was taking chances and fortunately was lucky enough that Terry found me in time to save my life.

My life has not improved much since that incident. Terry was diagnosed with bladder cancer and died a year and a half ago. I was left without money, as we had no savings. I did not know where to turn. Fortunately, my sister helped me financially and I was able to find an affordable apartment. My son, unfortunately, continued his heroin addiction and became an alcoholic.

Realizing it had to do with my depression and anxiety, I should have known better, yet I risked my life again by mixing Clonazepam, Ambien and alcohol. I slipped into unconsciousness that would have led to death if I were not rescued in time by my son.

Upon awakening, I realized how fortunate I was to still be alive, even with the emotional pain of living with my son’s addictions and the grief of Terry’s death. I always felt that there was a possibility of having a normal life, and most important of all, being there for my son.

I am still depressed and dealing with issues of loneliness, my son in jail and financial problems. There are days when I escape into my bedroom and just read. I let everything go, my personal hygiene, taking care of my apartment, going out, talking to family and friends.

No matter how bad things become, I have stopped taking chances with my life. I no longer turn to drugs and alcohol for relief from pain. I want to live. Because where there is life, there is hope. And hope is what I have now.

The Challenges of Social Anxiety

The Challenges of Social Anxiety

By Igor

I Wish People Would Treat Me Better

I often hear people complain about their lives, people who have families, children, friends, good jobs. Why should they complain?

One man complained about his partners, how he had so many and every relationship ended quickly. Another complained about his wives, about ruined marriages. Is this what people should complain about? What should I do then?

I am 23-years-old and I have never had a girlfriend. I first kissed a girl on the lips when I was 22 and that was a call-girl. Also we tried to have sex, but it wasn’t successful, because I was shaking.

I shake because of my social anxiety. I shake when someone touches me, such as a doctor or barber. I shake even when someone looks at me for too long a time. I shake badly.

I was diagnosed with social anxiety in 2013. My whole life I hardly spoke. First I thought that this was alright, but with time I understood that it is not.

There was a time when I was even afraid to go outside. But I just forced myself to go to the city. I was doing that every day. Then I found the courage to go to my GP (general practitioner) and I thought that it would save me for sure. I had sessions with two therapists, but that didn’t help me. Then I tried medication.

I have been to five different GPs, tried six different kinds of medication, including beta-blockers, but that had no effect on me. On the internet I heard lots of people saying that medication would help for sure. But medication has not had the slightest effect on me. I started to feel like an alien from another planet. How is it possible that the strongest beta-blockers have no effect on a human?

I have only one friend whom I see only during his holidays, as he studies in another city.

I should mention here that I am Lithuanian, but now living in the UK. This is where I had my first job working in a factory. I think this was the hardest time in my life. People were rude to me. They hated my looks. They despised me because of my appearance; I am sure about this now. There have been many similar situations to confirm that.

One such situation was in my school. I had changed schools and it was the third day in my new class. I had a lesson with a new teacher. At that time, a mother of one of my new classmates came in and told the teacher that someone was hurting her son. They spoke a little and when the woman left, the teacher asked the class, “Who is hurting this boy?”

The teacher came straight to me, leaned on my desk with both hands, looked at me and said, “I don’t really like you…”

She had never seen me before this day, and I had not even spoken one word.

You can say that she was just crazy, but there have been many such situations in my life. People always judge by appearance. It seems to me that some part of the brains of certain people have not evolved enough to understand. This is not so good, since appearances do not say much, really. And I never behave rudely to anyone. I always try to speak kindly to people.

Back to my factory work. There were lots of people around. Almost every day I thought about suicide. I’m not sure why I still haven’t done that. Maybe it’s because of religion.

Once I was sitting in the canteen and a few people sat with me. One girl sat and started talking straight away, saying, “So, we all sat here to interact,” and then pointed at me and continued, “Look at that goon sitting there.” Turning to me, she said, “Can you talk at all? You will never find a girlfriend like this!”

Yes, she may have been speaking the truth for all I know, but who needs it? It is the same situation when someone comes to disabled person sitting in wheelchair and says to him, “Look at that goon sitting there. You will never be able to walk!”

Social anxiety is a disorder. Persons with social anxiety cannot enjoy life and take everything they can from it.

Someone is complaining about their lack of money and how it’s hard to raise kids. And I don’t need money, because I have no one with me. For me, to have kids is my dream. But it seems that this dream will never come true.

The Gym Is My Salvation

The Gym Is My Salvation
By Ryan
Stabilizing Bipolar Disorder Through Fitness, Nutrition, Meds and Music
Some people would call it a “rant.” I call it an arch-nemesis. Yes, people sometimes can be crippled by their own condition. Only if you’re a fighter can you make it. I spent the earlier years of my life during my childhood as “cryin’ Ryan.”  That’s actually what my late grandfather used to call me as a child because I cried so much. Even as a two-year-old, I was moody. It could’ve been the bout of spinal meningitis that caused my bipolar I disorder, but it’s genetic.
Bipolar and unipolar depression run on both sides of my family. When I turned the tender age of ten, I found my behavior to be quite odd. I’d go on binges where I’d starve myself until I had a Catholic school teacher give me a Snickers bar. I would retreat into the mountains a lot, as I’m from California (though I live in Illinois). It has been a battle ever since I was diagnosed with bipolar-I with psychotic features. I’ve had fifteen to twenty hospitalizations and am fortunate to be on my mother’s health insurance.
As much as it troubled me as an adolescent, I was always active in sports—until I got into the later years of high school. My most memorable class was weight training. It just clicked with me. The working out and the walks, runs, sprints as a kid kept me athletic throughout my life. This is what has helped me stay in shape while being on 8-9 medications a day. I choose a sort of diet that’s healthy and take my anti-oxidants, knowing that the medication side effects on the long-term can take a toll.
Most of the time I would be battling with the illness and then go work out when I was able to drag myself to the gym. I also suffered from the effects of electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) for two years. Yes, it helped my severe depression, but ECT rampaged my memory, so my short-term is very bad, but my long-term is intact, thanks to the effects of Acetyl L-Carnitine. I only take a few supplements, just high amounts of anti-oxidants.
I’d say the biggest battle for me besides depression is education. I spent four years at a city college and was at a junior level status at the university since I moved. I’m doing my Bachelor of Arts next because I just got my Associates degree and need employment that is good enough to cover my medication, doctor visits, hospitalizations (if I have any more) and ongoing therapy to help me cope with day to day issues.
I’m 37 now and feel like a dinosaur trying to get mediocre jobs. I’m currently on disability and will be for the rest of my life, but I’ll still have my education behind me that no one can take away from me. Please, no more ECT. The lithium plus the other pills that I take for my illness help regulate my moods so that I don’t have the severity in mood swings. I have a few friends here in Illinois, but they’re living their lives which makes it difficult to get together with them.
I’d much like to consider myself a success story as I always strive to stay in shape by hitting the gym six days a week. I’ve contemplated bodybuilding, but would never put a steroid in me even though I’ve been lifting more on than off for the past twenty-plus years. I’m nowhere near where I’d like to be physically, but I’m getting closer to my goal. The family support I receive has been fantastic. My step-dad and mother are wonderful to me. So again, I’ll remain a success story no longer plagued with disease even though I’ll have it for the rest of my life. Thanks for listening. Be sure to visit my heavy metal website, http://www.secret-face.com/, to view my writing and guitar transcriptions.

Who Stole the Fun?

Who Stole the Fun?

By Robin
Brain Chemistry Run Amok is the Thief of Joy

In my autobiography I’m a war hero of sorts. Depression and schizophrenia are wars where brainstorms and dueling neurotransmitters wreak havoc with our lives in ways too horrid to consider, stripping us of our dignity and leaving us with cold night sweats for weeks at a time. And it is always there.

“Have a nice day. Cheer up. Things will be better,” they say. And we try to cheer up and have a nice day, but things don't get better.
We spend time in hospitals taking their medications, shocks, and patronization. We spend our every waking hour with a killer at our throats. Looking in the mirror we see the reflection of our murderer, one day to claim us as victim.
Then there are the constant assaults to endure, doctors who cannot quite fit us into their cookie cutter textbook diagnostic categories. Some days there is a palpable coldness chilling us to the bone that our beds, blankets and garments cannot cure.
Other days, tender nerve endings make light, sounds and other stimuli unbearable. A kind word cuts deeply. Birdsong sounds like nails on a blackboard. The fine sunlight filtering into our room blinds us, forcing us deeper under the covers. Waiting is all there is.
The next week a favorite tune becomes our enemy roiling around in our brain for days on end pulling us downward and down toward the edge. Television becomes the perpetrator of countless jingles that wound. Obsessions abound. Compulsions embarrass. Delusions lead us astray. Waiting is all there is.
We are victims of illnesses so cruel they can turn on us at any time. And the world rarely knows the penalty it extracts from us many days just to be able to walk down the street, holding onto our sanity.
We have no dreams to escape to. Our nightmares wrestle with us instead, leaving us in sweat-soaked beds and tear-stained pillows. Neither wife, nor husband, or family has a clue as to what is wrong, or knows what to do. Nor do we. We curse God, and feel shunned by those who seem to shy away from us. Our best friends stop coming around, write or call. The sun never shines in the sunshine state and all is not right with our world. Maybe it never has been or never shall be. That gun or that razor blade seem so seductive at times, and the large building we pass on the way to the store seems to call out our name, beckoning from its height. Wouldn't the fall at least offer surcease of sorrow?
Who stole the fun? Brain chemistry run amok is the thief of joy. It steals our heart and soul and if we ever let our guard down, it takes our mind as well—and a mind is a terrible thing to lose. We could even tolerate their medication and all those side effects, their electricity, their patronizing, if only there were some glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel has many curves, detours and dead ends. Maybe we get lucky and find redemption in Prozac, religion or AA and become a friend of Bill's. Maybe not.
But if it is not too late, and somehow you have not given up, then maybe these words from a survivor of these wars can assist you in the long, slow, never ending climb out of the black hole, back into some light. The journey back is not easy. Some don't want you back. And the work never ends if you do come back from the edge. You can never relax and forget. The edge is slippery and strewn with banana peels. The best you can do is never give up and keep trying. That helps. Never give up. You will always have bad days. There is no cure. There is some hope.

Never Give Up
If you try to return from hell on the slow train there is no welcoming committee and life must in fact begin anew and not where you left off. Your first and still favorite girlfriend and your best male friend aren't waiting at the station. But there are other people to meet. And perhaps some of those old friends will be happy you returned as well. You became different and are not the same person they knew and loved. You were probably pretty scary to them. Give them the benefit of the doubt; be willing to move on.
Then perhaps one day if you are lucky, technology lends you a hand. By chance you acquire a computer and get online. The internet or video games become a real presence in your life. You miss it when you are away from the consoles. You have something to wake up to. Email from online friends. News of any sort you choose. Music. Endless tutorials. Software to review and share. A Journey to take.
The light at the end of the tunnel gets a bit brighter. Days pass more quickly as you learn to work the net, play the games. There are search engines to try. Sweepstakes to enter. People to meet. Interactive games to play with others. Time is not so much of a burden. You can still learn, grow, socialize in a new way. Your views can be sent to multitudes of e-zines hungry for input. Reality of a different nature begins or returns slowly. Not as you wanted perhaps but life is more bearable again. Writing begins or continues. There is a renewal of hope, a rebirth of sorts in cyberspace.

ECT and My Secret Setback by Kurt Sass

ECT and My Secret Setback

By Kurt Sass

The Hidden Side Effect of Shock Treatment

During the years of 1999 to 2000 I had a total of 22 ECT (electro convulsive therapy) treatments—also known as “shock” treatments. These treatments literally saved my life. At the time I started the treatments, I had been in such a deep depression for the previous 11 months I could not even eat or get to the bathroom without assistance, and suicide was a constant thought.

While these treatments did indeed give me my life back, unfortunately they have caused a severe side effect which I have not revealed to a single person (except for my doctors) for all these many years until this article. This side effect is one of an acute short term memory loss.

Fortunately, I do not have the type of severe long-term memory loss suffered by about 10% of ECT users in which one can permanently forget family members, friends and events. With my memory loss, if you tell me something in the present, there is a somewhat decent chance I might forget it, at least for a brief time. I might remember it the next day, but not 10 minutes after you told me.

To be honest, at first I wasn’t even aware of the memory loss. In fact, when I went back to work a few months after the ECT treatments, my employers would constantly praise me for always being on top of things and never forgetting. My secret was that I had developed a skill of writing everything down on index cards, even the smallest of tasks. I also incorporated this system into my home life. I now had lists for everything. For the longest of time, I just thought I had become a very, very organized person. Slowly, however, it started to dawn on me that since I had never kept lists before in my previous 43 years of existence, so maybe there was a reason behind it.

When I finally did become cognizant than I suffered from short-term memory loss, I was devastated. To prove to myself that I did indeed suffer from it, I tried to go through my daily routine without writing notes. I didn’t make it to the afternoon. For example, I went to the store, which was only 4 blocks away, to purchase a number of items, but by the time I got there, I could only remember one. I know for a fact I had intended to buy many more items, because I had over one hundred dollars in my wallet.

Unfortunately, this memory loss is permanent. I have learned to cope in many ways. I still have my lists, of course. When an assignment is given to me at work, I usually send a confirmation e-mail to make sure all the details are covered. If the assignment is given over the phone or in person, I will no doubt ask a second time so I can write it down. Even the smallest of items has to go on my list. People will sometimes question me as to why I write everything down, but a quick joke about my “getting on in years” satisfies their curiosity.

The reason I haven’t told anyone about the memory loss before is that I didn’t want them to treat me differently because of it. I am certainly not ashamed of it, just as I am certainly not ashamed of my mental illness. I just don’t want people to feel that they must speak slowly or have to remind me of things, because there really isn’t any need. I have developed the skills and mechanisms to cope and overcome.

As to the reason why I have decided to finally open up about my memory loss? Well, just like with any other secret, the longer you keep it inside you, the more it festers inside you until you set it free. I learned this many years ago when I decided to tell people about my mental illness, so it is only natural that it should carry over with my memory loss.

Well, that’s it for now. Time to write a note to remind myself to edit this story tomorrow.

Happiness At Last

By Stefanie Tomasello

Finding a doctor who listens and the right combination of medicines makes all the difference

I’m bi-polar and stumped; I'm stumped today with what I have to share. What does one with bi-polar even say? My story includes the dramatic highs and lows of the illness, as well as the pestering urge to slit my wrists when I am being emotionally abused. I had asked myself: “When does it get good again?” I remember two summers ago at nightfall, sitting by the pool on a ledge, having a cigarette, just plotting my suicide and precisely how I was going to do it. I didn't really want to kill myself, because somewhere deep down, just waiting to get out, was happiness.

As a teenager, I was on Zoloft and anti-anxiety medication, and I held a job throughout my teens and twenties with a vibrant smile on my face. Nothing could hold me back. It was in my late twenties that I noticed that I had I started to become very manic. My moods were up and down and I was crying all the time. My depression and work pressures had taken a toll on me. I was burnt out and I desperately needed the right medication. The doctors put me on all different kinds of medications that didn't work; and the worst part was that none of them listened to a word I had to say. It was very stressful with all the side effects that I experienced from the medications. It was especially hard having my family see this roller coaster of my illness.

My father has schizophrenia and unfortunately went to prison for murder of another family member. I could not deal with this. It was far too much for a girl like me to handle. I received no support concerning the incident, so I had to learn to survive on my own. This was very hard considering the pressures of being bi-polar as well as there being a death in the family. Later on, I went back to my father’s apartment, lit a candle and said a prayer. I needed closure and I think that this was one thing that I could do for my family member. Just thinking about her, I remembered her smile and the way she always laughed, big and loud. It fit her and her laugh made me happy.

I was hospitalized four times for my illness and due to not being on the right medications. Nothing seemed to work for me. A year ago, I was talking about my father with my counselor and it opened a floodgate of emotion. I was in the state of mind in which I believed that any man would hurt me, rape me or kill me. This led to me thinking about my father; I was very paranoid, thinking there was serious harm coming my way. So I went into the hospital and right away the doctors put me on Ativan which worked wonders, because my anxiety had skyrocketed. It had been spiraling out of control, like a enchanted spider web woven of silk thread. I stayed in the hospital for a week and they also put me on Haldol. A new diagnosis was revealed and I was considered to be bi-polar with hints of schizophrenia. I was able to accept this new diagnosis.

I finally found a new doctor who was heaven-sent for me. I have been with her for the past two years and I’m doing beautifully. I told her right away to put me on Zoloft because I was so depressed and the bi-polar medication was not enough. I needed something else; the combination of medications just didn't feel right to me. So the doctor put me on Zoloft and added Seroquel for my highs and lows which worked wonders. I noticed a huge difference. I had been aware of my highs and lows, and by letting my doctor know, the result was no less than a miracle. She upped the Seroquel a bit and I have been more balanced than I have ever been in my life. I was also put on Haldol which I felt in awe of, from the improvements I experienced. It felt like sunset at nightfall, or a like a colorful rainbow on a gloomy, misty and cloudy day. It just works for me. I haven't relapsed yet and I get a shot of Haldol each month now. The only side effect I experience now is tremors but that’s why I take Cogentin.

I recently began receiving social security; but to tell you the truth I love it! I get to do things that I never did in my teens because of working so much. Now I can sit in a cafe with a good cup of coffee and just enjoy reading a novel with the sun streaming in. I’ve never felt this great before in my life! I'm more creative; painting and writing, reading and getting out more. I'm so blessed. See, I knew there was happiness just waiting to get out – I think it was just waiting for the perfect time. At first it was a lot of work, but happiness gets easier and you learn to love being happy, and re-learn how to love yourself and not to feel sad all the time. It’s not perfect but it gets better and you can be happy. I think we all want to be happy. Like I said happiness just waits for the perfect time to come out. I'm happy, one day at a time, and I hope you, too, can be happy one day at a time.

Book Review: Living for the Moment

Reviewed by Jack M. Freedman

A collection of poetry by Stephen J. Fernbach

I will admit that sometimes I fall victim to procrastination, which is why I am glad that I now have a spare opportunity to review a book of poetry. As a self-published poet myself, I can always appreciate work written by authors who genuinely enjoy the art of poetry. In many cases, we get to see the evolution of the poet as he or she progresses throughout the years and develops an astute maturity. This is the case of Living for the Moment, written by Stephen J. Fernbach.

This is Mr. Fernbach’s third book of poetry. He has written quite a number of personal accounts over the span of his life. Oftentimes, while I read a book of poetry, I randomly turn to a page and read it instead of reading the whole book from cover to cover. While engaging in this process, I found a couple of poems that stuck out.

Many of these writings dealt with the Jewish experience. As a person of the Jewish faith, I was able to relate with many of the sentiments expressed in the book. Such poems include “Israel Is My Shambala” and “First the Dinner Bell, Then the Shofar Sounds.”  The first poem expresses a deep love for the land of milk and honey. Such memories expressed include landmarks, such as the Sea of Galilee and the Western Wall. My own memories of staying in a kibbutz for a couple of days and being moved to tears while praying against the oft nicknamed “Wailing Wall” were evoked. The second poem includes some free-floating thoughts on the high holiday of Rosh Hashanah. For those unfamiliar with this holy day, Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish new year and a shofar is a ram’s horn used as a musical instrument to ring in the new year in a somber fashion. I liked the memories expressed, including the Jewish customs and a dissenting message regarding Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad visiting Ground Zero and speaking at Columbia University.

I would make one friendly recommendation though, which is for the author to flesh out his ideas a little bit more. This piece of advice is given for poems that sometimes ended abruptly. It takes a lot of talent to create imagery that inspires people and Mr. Fernbach definitely has that talent. However, in the words of Oliver Twist, “Please Sir, can I have some more?” That is, more complete thoughts that are wrapped up without leaving something to be desired.

Overall, I enjoyed reading this book. I personally hope that Mr. Fernbach writes a fourth book. I would like to see his craft further develop. Please write on, Mr. Fernbach. Keep poetry alive!

Expressing Yourself Through Art Can Save Your Life

By Elisabeth Bailey

Subtitle: Being creative more effective than meds

I have always been a creative person and seen life and the world from different eyes. It was quite apparent just how different I was at a very young age. After turning five years old I first verbalized suicidal ideations. Later the same year I announced I would not believe in a God which allowed so many horrors to occur in this world. Psychiatric appointments have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, and every morning and night, rainbows of pills wait to be swallowed.

I wasn’t a happy child and my home environment was anything but stable and safe. I grew up with a bipolar, megalomaniac, abusive father. I feared and reviled him from the start. My mother was submissive, and often seemed blind to his abuse, so I was left to deal with these situations on my own much of the time.

As I grew older, I often lived without any close friends or had a typical social life at all. My depression worsened greatly and I began experiencing irrational fears. I often comforted myself, daydreaming of different ways to end my life, to stop the exhaustion of my existence

As I entered college, things began to look up, but new problems arose. I learned how to make friends and create a social life, but stress leapt upon me with ferocity. I punished myself for failures, and the negative self-talk that had been my shadow for so long grew louder and more powerful.

As mania of my own began to surface more and more, I took drugs, drank more, and soon found myself utterly exhausted and depressed. It was early in my college years that I first spent time in a psychiatric hospital.

After dropping out and starting school again and again through the years, I gave up. My mental health was poor and it controlled my life. Either the pain was so great and endless, or mania and hallucinations warped my logic and self-control. I burned and cut myself on a regular basis, and suicide attempts became almost a schedulable event. Soon, I tried electroconvulsive therapy, and was left in an even worse place than before. I was lost. Lost to my family, my friends, the life I once lead, and most of all, lost to myself.

Through all the insurmountable struggles and disasters, I turned to art and creative pursuits. It was not until about a year ago that I realized that expressing myself creatively helped me more than any medication I had been on, any psychologist or therapist I had seen, and any treatment I had gone through. It had always been a positive part of my life, and it was always there.

I have embraced the life of an artist, and find that being an artist gives my life a sense of purpose. It has always been there for me, and will always be there. Now I know that when things are awry, I have something to turn back to, something to re-direct my focus on. When I am manic, it gives me positive activities to pour my energy into. When I am depressed, it helps distract me. Though I have always loved art, it is only now that I realize I have been an artist all my life.

We each have creativity within us. The hard part is learning to find one’s own way of expressing it, and even harder is embracing that we are each artists each in our own way. You don’t have to earn a living or have works in shows to be creative; in fact it really doesn’t matter who you are and what you do. One needn’t paint the ceilings of a church, write a song that hits the top of the charts, or re-create an image of a can of soup. You are a creative being. Explore that part of you which is hidden. Try different media. Paint, write, dance, sculpt, sing, whatever! It really does not matter what you try, it is the process that counts. Nothing you create has to be seen or judged by others, it is just there for you. Tap into it, and you may find that, just as I have, art may be the best medicine for us all.