While filing documents at my job one
afternoon, I started chatting with my deceased partner D. A few years ago –
when we conversed regularly – that hardly would have been noteworthy. (I joke
that now I win all the arguments.) However, it’s been some time since I felt or
heard from her. Only when her presence returned was I reminded how long had
been her absence. Not surprisingly, I enjoyed the exchange and a sense of
peace.
The thought came to me that I had been
too lost in my own fear to recognize her presence. I had returned to my home
state without D after 20 years away, was almost immediately hospitalized and
diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and spent nearly two years seeking a job and
trying to make a life in a new location (albeit my childhood home). You know –
fear.
The good news? Nowhere to go but up.
Mental health is a lifetime project that
requires self-advocacy. Two years ago, I left a stay at the psychiatric unit of
a local hospital with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I was released without
any professional bothering to put my diagnosis in writing. Despite the insistence
of my parents and me and aside from a few prescriptions, no referrals or resources
were offered. Although this state prides itself on quality of life, the need
for psychiatrists is greater than the availability. (Ironically, in the scarce
population of my previous town, I had an easier time getting an appointment
with a psychiatrist for a diagnosis of ADD – attention deficit disorder – than I
had getting a psychiatrist in this metropolitan area for a diagnosis of bipolar
disorder.) It took several weeks to find a psychiatrist who was willing to take
on a new patient; and I found him after a referral from another person with
mental illness. Fortunately, the therapist from my last locale referred me to
the therapist I’m seeing now.
Since then, I’m on my second
psychiatrist, a nurse practitioner whose level of care far exceeds the first. In
the language of the mental health world, I am “stable on my meds;” after experimenting
with different psychotropic medications from a list known to help patients with
bipolar disorder, anxiety, and maybe ADD, the combination I have been taking
for months are proving effective without undesirable side effects. In the first
year, I attended two groups meant to support and advise people with mental
illness, the second of which relied upon DBT (dialectical behavior theory),
which basically means that if a certain behavior causes pain, then do the
opposite. For example, while depression can make it hard to get out of bed, it’s
also true that staying in bed longer than needed for a healthful sleep can
deepen depression; so get out of bed although it’s emotionally difficult at
that moment because it’s emotionally rewarding in the long run. Weekly
appointments with my therapist where I cry, self–blame, and report that “I want
to give up but don’t know what that means” have evolved into less frequent
appointments where I share successes, joys, and meeting goals. (For instance, starting
two days ago, I’m commuting to work by train and home by bicycle. Obviously,
today I’m back to composing on this blog after a long absence.)
Struggling with a new mental-illness
diagnosis complicates an already long and painful search. One critical resource
that my therapist recommended was a local Workforce Development Center, where I
was assigned to individuals who specialize in working with people who have learning,
physical, or mental disabilities. They taught me that a cover letter is just
that – a letter – and advised me how to match my resume to the job description.
I also worked with recruiters who are unaware of my mental-health status. In
two years, I’ve had a handful of gigs lasting from a few days up to two weeks; I
was “let go” twice. At times I cancelled interviews or took breaks from job
hunting while too “out of sorts” to follow through reasonably. For ten weeks or
so, I clerked at a corporate grocery store where a customer noted from my vocabulary
that I must be overqualified. Fortunately, that job was followed by five months
in a professional position where, from week two I was promised to be hired permanently;
unfortunately, the employer failed to follow through on that agreement.
Gladly, my career has improved. The job
I’m now in is contract-to-hire. In other words, if I do well, I get to stay! As
I expressed to my therapist at our last appointment, the work culture suits me –
introvert accountants, engineers, and computer specialists; extrovert project
managers and sales reps. The job keeps me engaged, the Director of Human
Resources has treated me “like a person” from the beginning, and with the
exception of one negative but manageable Nelly my immediate co-workers are
patient, kind, and no-nonsense. After her return from a long weekend, my
supervisor asked how I had made out with the deadline from the week previous. Quite
literally, she said she was impressed – that is, I had exceeded her
expectation. Although not revealed by her, I had been my supervisor’s second
choice to hold the position; no one would know it from her professional way of
managing me. After five weeks, the job is going well.
As expected, making friends takes time. From
law school, I retained one friend who no longer practices either; as an
introvert, she is great company but not much help in meeting new people. I
frequently visit my parents and nephew, who live six miles from me. One sister
and I speak regularly by phone; on occasion, her husband or I make the three-hour
drive. Every now and again, I visit a second cousin and his hobby farm. Also infrequently,
I enjoy dinner or a group gathering with one college friend. Thankfully a very
busy friend from a past home is able and willing to stop in for occasional
layovers; two weeks from now, for the third time she’s coming for the weekend. Until
recently, one good friend from yet another residence was an invaluable
character in my life, including serving as my caregiver while I cared for D
during her 20 months with leukemia. Another friend “had my back” during and after
the hospital stay, but I see him seldom now. I participate in MeetUp groups (organized
and RSVPd online; attended in person), which typically are enjoyable but so
far, no friendships have developed. Throw in a few more relatives, their
acquaintances, and Facebook – and there’s my social life. In no way do I want
to understate my love and gratefulness for all in my life. It’s also true that
this social creature needs more to sustain me.
Friends and friendliness can come from
unexpected places. Within the week from departing the hospital, I found myself
at a local NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) support group. Although
there were locations nearer to my parents’ house where I was living at the
time, for some reason I chose a meeting that took two hours via three bus rides
one way; I was motivated! That choice proved to be divine intervention; it’s
the first NAMI peer support group I tried and by far the best one in meeting my
needs. This group has become my anchor of sorts. Week after week, they have
seen me through two psychiatrists, a number of changes in medications, fears
that a professional job was never destined to come my way, the difficulties in
mid-age of living with parents followed by being asked to leave, regret and pain
over difficult relationships with step-daughters with whom I no longer
communicate, the loneliness of an insufficiently fulfilling life, and even the
inability to sit still for an hour and a half. Our discussions cover topics both
related and unrelated to mental illness – from the frustration of being treated
like a patient by family and friends to the sadness of a friend’s wife placing
her husband in a long-term facility. In addition to the peer who advised me
about an available psychiatrist, an accountant in the group offered advice and
referrals in accessing work and upgrading skills in my field. One peer and I
routinely spend winter Saturday mornings walking around a local lake. Another
peer – a gay man who came out of the closet at an older age – started asking my
advice as he rejoins the dating world. Although our NAMI group is not among the
two in the area specifically designated to support LGBTQ adults with mental
illness, the concentration of queer peers in our group far exceeds the 10%
estimation of the general society. (When I asked why that might be, my
therapist responded that stress tends to push the predisposition of a mental
illness to its manifestation and diagnosis.) After a weekend of training, for
the first time I officially co-facilitated the peer group along with a woman
new to our group who thankfully suits our unorthodox style. She also happens to
be a poor black lesbian with multiple mental illnesses who writes poetry, is
direct, and has a sense of humor; something tells me she has a lot to teach.
And now D is back. Not in body but in
the ways that count.
Peace is a creation – a gift to and for
others and ourselves. Quite literally, peace brings love. I imagine the same
applies to living beings.
