Making Peace

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.