I’m finally home after giving two speeches with Glennie and spending a week at McLean Hospital for more testing with Dr. Levy. Two weeks gone was too long, but I’m basking in the quiet once again. Last night, after finally getting home, I lit a fire in my woodstove, then walked outside my house in the dark and, with the creek as background music, reacquainted myself with the stars and the moon. The sweet, thick scent of smoke from the chimney wrapped around me. The huge snow-covered mountains looming above me glowed in the moonlight. I was home.
This past summer saw a new roof on my house. I can’t help but think in metaphor—that the new roof represents me, a woman who went from being severely mentally ill to being capable of living life almost unhindered by my disorder. My old roof was growing lichen, and pieces of the dark green shingles blew off whenever a wind picked up, which is often. Now, with my new roof, I welcome and even challenge the wind.
I no longer have the constraints of living with a husband or children. My last husband, Mark, and I officially divorced ten years ago and we remain friends, and my three children are now gone from my home. I protect myself from alcoholism and bipolar disorder by—obviously—avoiding alcohol and taking my medications. But I’ll always carry the shame of doing the things I did when I was drunk and unmedicated. I’ll always question my diagnosis. I think questioning the validity of being mentally ill plagues everyone who’s on the right meds and no longer feels symptoms. This questioning can lead to stopping medication unless you’re very careful and compliant. Even after writing this book and reviewing everything that happened to me, as well as undergoing all the weeks of testing at McLean with Dr. Levy, I asked Mattie one night when I was feeling good if she thought I really was bipolar. She responded with, “Are you fucking kidding me?” So there’s that!
I wouldn’t mind being manic again for a day, manic without the ugly parts, but I never want to be depressed again. Losing mania because of fear of depression is a good thing. I don’t know if I’d make it through another depression, and that scares me. I have so much to live for these days and have managed to carve out a really wonderful life for myself.
My dog pack is up to four after rescuing a rat terrier named Rosco. He is my problem child, having suffered three abandonments, but I love him and will stick by him. Snitz rules the roost as the alpha, and only, female. She is my heart’s companion. She’s tiny at seven pounds but forceful, loving, and stubborn. She accompanies me on many of the trips I take to speak. She sits on the various podiums and never puts up a fuss. Snitz seems to absorb the angst I carry when I’m out in the world. She is classified as my Emotional Support Service Dog and is allowed to travel on my lap everywhere. I am grateful for her.
My life has been filled with sadness and loss, but I don’t concentrate on those things anymore—most of the time, anyway. I am alive. I have three wonderful children, I’m friends with my siblings and mother, and I have friends outside my family whom I cherish. What more could I ask?
I’m pleased to live alone, but there’s more to it than that. I not only protect myself from my mood disorder by avoiding alcohol and taking my medication, I also respect my conscious decision to remain mateless. This really isn’t much of a sacrifice, because I’ve had more relationships than most people have in three lifetimes. But I still look; I just don’t touch. And I still feel great relief when I look around my home and see only my things. The specter of being involved with a man and destroying another relationship strikes fear in my heart.
I can only dream about what it would have been like to live my early years with treatment. I can pine and feel the grief that comes from losing so much of myself in this lifetime, but then I’m questioning what is. I’m questioning reality and my faith, refusing to see what’s in front of my face. I’m grateful that we know so much more now and that people like Calen can get help early in their lives. I’m grateful to Glennie for her huge efforts to help end the stigma of mental illness, and I’m grateful to all the people with mental illnesses who have stood up to declare that they are ill in the face of such a stigma, both with and without the help of Bring Change 2 Mind.
But when all is said and done, it’s been my mom, Moo, who has stuck by me, even in my absence. As a mother I know what it feels like to know that I did the wrong thing as far as my children are concerned. I know, as a mother myself, how she must have been tortured by our absence in her life with Pop but I also know now that during those times I was in her heart, 24-7. I have no doubt about that. When she was with me, I felt especially loved. She was a fun mom and a cozy mom, a mom who read to me and cuddled with me, who brought me trays with food when I was sick, and who loved to laugh with me. And she helped save Calen’s and my lives with her unflinching generosity. Mom turned 90 this year. She’s frail and wisp-like now but her eyes and Yankee chin still show her spark, her determination, her love. I believe that when we each get close to passing from this life it’s the love we have nurtured in others that lights our way and makes our journey smooth. My mom will have a very smooth journey filled with extreme light. I love you, my Moo!
Resilience has allowed me to “put it all down,” to put all to rest. The four stages of grief are Denial, Anger, Acceptance, and Advocacy.
Now, when the final page is written, I can close this book and continue advocating for the mentally ill. It is my heartfelt wish that all of you join me.