Janine Crowley Haynes
What Crazy Looks Like—What Crazy Feels Like
Chapter I
I am crazy. There—I said it. Crazy is a blanket term that covers all kinds of mental disorders. The medical term for my kind of crazy is known as Bipolar Disorder aka Manic-Depressive Illness. Now, I know it’s not politically correct to use the word crazy when referring to anyone with a mental illness, but I wear the name like a badge of honor. I think I’ve earned it. I may not look crazy. In fact, I look quite normal. People are somewhat surprised when they find out and respond by saying, “But you don’t look crazy.” Most people laugh it off when someone calls them crazy. I laugh it off too, knowing that I can actually produce the certifiable papers to prove my craziness.
For some reason, the term bipolar sounds incredibly sophisticated. It makes me feel like I should possess a special talent or gift. To me, the word implies savant-like capabilities. The label crazy is equivalent to the GED of mental disorders, whereas bipolar sounds more like holding a PhD in the field. “Congratulations, you are bipolar! Here is your certificate.” At the very least, the bi preceding the polar should enable me to do two opposite tasks simultaneously.
An acquaintance once told me how lucky I was to be bipolar and that I should not be afraid of it, but rather embrace it. He went on to say that being bipolar was a gift from God. “Well, that’s just crazy talk,” I replied. I considered my condition more of a curse than a blessing. If you were to consult my husband or son on the matter, I’m sure they would agree with me. Although, I have to say, this somewhat stranger’s words got me thinking.
To embrace this thing called bipolar disorder is not an easy task. You live day to day with the realization that you can lose your mind at any given moment. It’s not my intention to minimize other physical ailments, because they are truly hardships as well. However, losing control of your sanity brings along with it a fear that can only be understood through the experience.
I am not alone with my mental illness. I am only one in 5.7 million adult Americans who are diagnosed with a mental illness in a given year. Within that figure, 2.6 percent are diagnosed with bipolar disorder. As opposed to the psychoanalytical perspective of mental illness, the purpose of my story is to shed light on the human aspect of living with bipolar disorder. It’s my hope that I can reach out to others with this condition. Whether it is a loved one or yourself who is affected by a mental illness, it can be a frightening ordeal.
Mind you, I am not an experienced, award-winning writer. My mixed metaphors and misplaced modifiers are testament to my virginal prose. In fact, this is my first attempt at writing. I am not a celebrity who can use my illness as a platform. I am not a doctor, nor do I recommend any one treatment. For the sake of authenticity, I acknowledge that certain parts of my story may be embellished due to being in a psychotic state where hallucinations tend to run wild. As far as I’m concerned, the real versus the unreal is an integral part of the illness and deserves equal recognition. Acknowledging every state of our being is what is pure and true.
Now that I’ve gotten all of the disclaimers out of the way, what I bring to you is my experience of living life as a crazy person.
After living with this disorder for over thirteen years, I struggle to find the right words to describe it. The bipolar experience has to do with going through extreme mood swings—from mania to depression, from anger and rage to paranoia, from apathy leading to eventual despair. There are as many different degrees and patterns of this disorder as there are bipolar individuals.
When I am in the beginning of the manic phase, it’s like looking at the ocean during high tide on a bright sunny day. Standing at the edge of the sand where the vast ocean meets my insignificant self, I watch as the waves come crashing in all around me, one after the other. It excites and exhilarates me. My senses become heightened. The flow of the ocean brings along with it all sorts of possibilities. My creative energies soar; I feel like I can do anything—even fly. This high can last for days, weeks, or even months. Eating and sleeping are just an afterthought.
Then all at once, a million thoughts come rushing in. I can’t keep up. Soon my thoughts become scattered. Inevitably, the feeling of invincibility deteriorates into vulnerability. A perpetual tremor radiates through my extremities. Suddenly, I am engulfed by an enormous wave, and I am dragged out to sea by a riptide. Now, miles away from solid ground, I fight fiercely against the current. My heart races and panic sets in as I struggle to stay afloat. As I gasp for air, salt water fills my lungs. I swim harder, but something reminds me not to fight. If I allow the current to take me out farther, then it will release me. Tread water, stay afloat, I tell myself, but I’m terrified and tired. I begin to sink. For a moment, I let go. The surreal sense of it all overwhelms me, but I choose to fight. Finally, another wave comes along, and the ocean spits me back onto the shore like some bad shellfish that it had for lunch. The ocean quiets and the shore recedes. As I lie in the sand, I gaze at the sky. It turns from blue to gray. The low tide of depression sets in. I become paralyzed by feelings of hopelessness and despair.
The last time I was caught in the riptide, I surrendered. I sank to a new depth. In less flowery words, I swallowed a bunch of pills to put myself out of the never-ending misery. I convinced myself that my family would be better off without the burden of my illness. Contrary to what Shakespeare might have us believe, there is nothing noble, poetic, or lyrical about suicide. Please forgive me for not being able to express my remorse. Suffice it to say, I want to kill myself for trying to kill myself.
The regrets I have pale in comparison to the pain I have caused my husband, son, extended family, and friends. I will never forgive myself for inflicting such a trauma on my loved ones. Although I know my son loves me, the hurt and fear that remains in his blue eyes pierces like a dagger straight through to my soul. Understandably, his trust in me has been broken and the damage—irreparable. Saying I’m sorry just doesn’t cut it.
Over the years, I have had numerous hospital stays, various doctors, countless therapy sessions, and a wide array of medication regimens. Not to get all Confucius on you, but my mother tried to instill in me the belief that there is a lesson to be learned from every experience we encounter. The challenge is to find the lesson, learn from it, and then pass on that wisdom. It’s easier said than done, but I truly want to believe that it is possible.
I can’t help but wonder why this bipolar cycle continues to repeat itself. Is it because I’m just not getting it? Or, am I supposed to be honing my endurance and long-suffering techniques? Could it be that the lesson to be learned here is that there is no lesson at all—it just is what it is? If that’s so, maybe I can learn to accept it and find the peace I so desire.
For me, finding this peace of mind is like discovering the Holy Grail in a landfill after spending a lifetime sifting through all of the debris. They say that the devil is in the details, or is it God that’s in the details? I can’t remember. Anyway, what they don’t tell you is that looking for it can drive you crazy. And, if or when you finally do find it, well wouldn’t you know, it was right there in front of you all along.
Excerpt from My Kind of Crazy: Living in a Bipolar World
By Janine Crowley Haynes
(available on Amazon.com)
The author has been an inpatient and outpatient of Silver Hill Hospital for over thirteen years. It is her wish to share her experience to offer some hope to others who are struggling with a mental illness.
