Before and After

 When I consider my life, it is usually divided into two parts: Before and After. Before – before a proper diagnosis. After – after a proper diagnosis. This distinction isn’t some fleeting thought I have when I open a scrap book. It’s the way I tell my story, to myself and to others. I have rationalized a dozen different reasons for this distinction but, privately, I know that only one is true. I want to draw a bright red X on the calendar and say, “This is the day I stopped being a terrible person.” That is how shame operates. Shame is a liar. Shame will steal a memory and replace it with a sharp pain in your belly and a tightening in your chest. Others can foster shame, but it feeds on your hurt and regret. In my desperation to distance myself from Before, I ripped my life in half and gave the big piece to shame. When that happens, shame becomes emboldened and far less afraid of the light.

During Before, I lived an entire life; a rich and complicated life. I reached out for help so many times over the years, but never with any real conviction, or perhaps just never in the right direction. I did a bit of drinking and drugging, searched for comfort in the bodies of others, and made impulsive, sometimes self-destructive, decisions. Later, seeking something more ethereal, I joined a women’s collective, studied Sufism, and moved to a Biodynamic Farming Community in New York State. In between, I got married and divorced, raised an amazing step-daughter and a willful little beagle, traveled, ran a marathon and went back to college. Still, no matter where I was, each of these experiences, though important, brought me no closer to true wellness. I was sick, and as the years went by, I was getting sicker. In spite of all my efforts, eventually, Before became unbearable.

When I finally found help, it lived an entire state away. I understood, that for me, I couldn’t stay well under the same circumstances in which I’d become sick. Over the course of a single weekend, I packed my belongings into a U-Haul and drove across state lines, into an entirely new world. That began After. I found a psychiatrist, got the right medication and began therapy. With the support of my husband and family, I settled in and began building an entirely different life – a life lived with care, education, and intention. I kept my appointments, took my meds, made healthy choices, and created a support system. I read, listened and talked to the anyone who would share their story. Every day, I learned something new. I thought because my old life was becoming smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, that it was also becoming less and less important. That’s not true, you know?

A few days ago, someone I care for a great deal unexpectedly decided it was time to walk away from our friendship. She was the last real connection between my two lives. I am sad; so much sadder than I expected. This moment is very fresh so I am trying to remain present. In moments like this, if you aren’t careful, the past will grab hold and drag you back. This parting means I am no longer tethered to her or the hurt I caused her, but it also means I am also no longer tethered to the me that she loved. I am self-aware enough to admit that I held onto her much longer than I should have because I wanted to be forgiven. That isn’t her job. Her job is self-care. She needed to move on and I cannot begrudge her that.

As I sit here, trying to process this (what should I call it?) loss, it occurs to me (why wasn’t this clear to me sooner) that I have voluntarily given shame the entirety of Before. That is more than half my life! That can’t be right. No wonder shame has made himself so comfortable at my kitchen table, eating handfuls of calendar squares. Somehow, along the way, my memories got tangled up with my illness and it simply became easier to let shame take it all. But here’s the thing, THE MOST IMPORTANT THING, about Before and After: everything Before wasn’t terrible and everything After isn’t perfect. It’s a mixed bag. Life is messy that way.

A million amazing, ordinary, terrible and wonderful moments happen in a lifetime and they’re all connected. It’s all one story. Let me say that again – It’s all one story and it’s your story. It may be complicated but it belongs to you. Don’t let anyone else tell it for you. Maybe I can find a place on my calendar for this moment: a bright red X to remind me that loss feels terrible but you can’t go back and change anything. There are no mulligans in real life. What you can do, instead, is find somewhere safe to be, identify your allies, embrace your past, tell your own story, fight like hell to stay healthy and be gentle with yourself when you fall. Your past isn’t a minefield, it’s a history book. Use it!

P.S. To the girl on the bicycle, I will miss you terribly.

A Square Peg Brain

 

A SQUARE-PEG BRAIN IN A ROUND-HOLE WORLD

There are so many famous people who live with mental illness. All you have to do is look anywhere on the internet and you’ll see dozens of names and faces you recognize. There are also millions of unfamous people living with mental illness; ordinary you & me kinds of people. That’s because mental illness is no more selective than any other disease. It doesn’t care what you look like, how you worship, who you love or who signs your paycheck. The thing we share, the famous and the unfamous, is also the thing that sets us apart. Merriam-Webster defines illness as, “a specific condition that prevents the body or mind from working normally.” If this is true, then how do we succeed in a world designed by and for “normal” minds? Here’s what I think: We do it like McGyver, with nothing but a safety pin, a stick of gum and a thimble. We do it like Ginger Rogers, dancing backwards, in heels. We do it like Joseph Friedman, who thought straws should be bendier, just because. For both the famous and the unfamous, success often requires a great deal of creativity.

Not long ago, I was asked to describe what my illness looks like. In the past, this would have been easy. I would have produced an aerial map which showed large sections of my country, leveled to rubble, as if by a natural disaster or an invading army. I would point and say, “That’s what remains after a manic episode or a long period of depression.” And, that would be true, sort of. What I hadn’t expected was to be asked to take a walking tour through those cities; to reframe my story. What I found was unexpected. Mental illness is just that, an illness, but it is other things, too. It is the lens through which I view the world. It is the fuel that propels me forward. It is, at times, a monkey on my back, but it is also the circus where we live. What I mean is, at times mental illness has made my life immeasurably difficult and painful but my life is also interesting and complicated and valuable, not in spite of, but because of the unique way my mind works.

Before I was properly diagnosed, my unconventional brain created some fairly intuitive survival skill. Here’s an example: I live with a busy head. Not just regular busy; my head is Grand-Central-Station-at-rush-hour busy. This has always made simple tasks unnecessarily complicated. I’ve spent hours looking for misplaced keys, wallets, cell phones and my car in the supermarket parking lot. After years of calling-in sick to work because I couldn’t find my eye glasses or car keys, I unconsciously began creating order. I started to assign everything a home. I didn’t realize what I was doing; it was just my busy head trying to manage my busy life. Now, after so many years of practice, almost everything I own has a permanent location. My kitchen floor may need mopping but I can list, from top to bottom, every item in my pantry. I’ve become the planner, the organizer, and the list maker. Few people know what a challenge it was to get here. I’m organized on the outside because I’m not on the inside, and that’s ok. Creative problem solving keeps my closets exceptionally organized.

Over the years, I have also struggled with impulsivity. No matter how much I longed to be still, I couldn’t. Restlessness was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. So, I moved, a lot. I changed jobs, a lot. I fell in and out of love, a lot. I’ve lived dozens of places: some wonderful, some dreadful, some so unremarkable I barely remember them. I once packed only what would fit in the trunk of my car and moved from Alabama to New York. It felt like the right thing to do. In retrospect, it was, but at what cost. I can’t begin to name all the places I’ve been employed. I’ve done everything from church secretary to phone sex operator. I’ve worked in a law office and driven the ball-picker at a country club golf course. I’m even a proud graduate of the Subway Sandwich College. (Seriously, that’s a real thing.) In between, I have loved and been loved by some truly remarkable people. There was heartache, too, and loss. Ultimately, I believe I traded one singular purpose for a million smaller experiences. For me, “never finding” meant “always looking” and that search gave me purpose.

I’m the person I’ve become because I had to be. I was born with a square-peg brain in a round-hole world. I adapted because that’s how we survive, how we succeed. My mind will never work normally – not in the Merriam-Webster kind of way – but I’m fine with that. Sometimes, the thing that makes you different is the very thing that saves you. My not-normal mind makes lists, remembers a lifetime of conversations, collects stories both beautiful and heartbreaking, so I write. Writing quiets my racing thoughts. Writing creates order out of chaos. In front of the keyboard, my head is Grand Central Station at 3:00 am, full of echoes and ghosts. Without my mental illness, I may never have found my voice, and I might still be looking for my car in Wal-Mart parking lot.