Also My Healing

Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow.

(Sorry, that was a TERRIBLE pun, and probably a bit insensitive, which flies in the face of a lot of what this blog is trying to accomplish.  But sometimes we can laugh a little too, and I just couldn't help it!)

As we continue our exploration of stigma and mental illness this month, we are taking a look at famous artists, writers and celebrities who suffer from this disease.  We can't leave out Vincent Van Gogh, an extraordinary artist who lived a painful life at a time when treatment simply was not available for his diseases.

Vincent van Gogh, Dutch Post-Impressionist artist, reportedly had both clinical depression and bipolar disorder.

Color and Shapes

“I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way - things I had no words for."  - Georgia Okeefe

Georgia O’Keeffe, deceased American artist, reportedly suffered from clinical depression.

Grace Under Pressure

Courage is grace under pressure. - Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway, deceased American writer, reportedly suffered from either clinical depression or bipolar disorder (probably bipolar disorder, as Patricia Cornwell’s so sure it’s not unusual for great artistic people to have it), and committed suicide in 1961. (Source:  http://www.blisstree.com/articles/famous-writers-and-artists-and-mental-illness-234/)

Lorraine Bracco

Another celebrity who has been forthcoming about her disease is the actress Lorraine Bracco.  Thank you Lorraine, for telling the truth and helping to destigmatize mental illness.

Role Reversal

Actress Lorraine Bracco plays a psychiatrist on TV. She's also battled depression in her real life.

By Daniel J. DeNoon
WebMD the Magazine - Feature

Reviewed by Brunilda Nazario, MD

Lorraine Bracco, as psychiatrist Jennifer Melfi on The Sopranos, HBO's smash hit, is cool and calm talking with Tony Soprano about the mobster's depression. But when she remembers the start of her own real-life battle with depression, her voice rises with passion.

"It hit me that it had been months since I felt anything. That I was just joyless," Bracco tells WebMD. "Finally I said, this is just not right. There is something really wrong here. A whole year of my life was lost. Too long! Too long to not live! "

She feels alive now. And she feels angry. Angry with herself about losing a year before she sought treatment. "It makes me laugh: I had this for a whole year, and the doctor was just two miles down the road," she says, not laughing.

Now Bracco is speaking out about her successful treatment. In 2005, she agreed to serve as a depression spokeswoman for the drug company Pfizer. And last summer, the TV psychiatrist gave a speech to an auditorium full of real psychiatrists at the annual meeting of the American Psychiatric Association. She urges others to recognize their depression -- and get help before they, too, waste part of their lives.

Tough Times

Bracco had all kinds of reasons to feel down. In the '90s-which she calls "a really lousy decade" she went through a very public divorce with actor Harvey Keitel. Eventually she was awarded sole custody of their daughter, Stella.

Based on unsubstantiated charges that Bracco's new husband, actor Edward James Olmos, had once fondled a teenage girl, Keitel later initiated a protracted custody battle. Bracco won -- but it left her bankrupt. Her relationship with Olmos ended. And she learned that Stella has juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, a serious illness. On top of it all, good acting roles became scarce.

Clinical depression isn't necessarily brought on by stress or sadness. Bracco's rough 10 years took a toll, of course, but didn't directly cause her depression. That came after Stella got better and after the role of Dr. Melfi in The Sopranos rejuvenated Bracco's career.

"A tough divorce, another major breakup, a major custody battle, and a very sick child -- that definitely contributed to it," she says. "But it was only after my life started getting back into order, when my life was on an upswing, that I took a downswing."

People feel the symptoms of depression in different ways. Some can't get out of bed. Others, like Bracco, go through the motions. "I was getting my kid to school and everything -- the house was in good shape. But I was not," she says.

Clinical depression isn't a mood. It's an illness that makes it impossible for a person to experience normal feelings. One in 20 Americans suffers depression each year. One in every 4 to 5 women and 1 in every 8 to 10 men develop depression in their lifetime.

In Bracco's case, what disappeared down the rabbit hole wasn't her life. It was her ability to live her life. "I felt very isolated and very lonely," she says. "I didn't get any joy out of life. I just did things. I felt I had this hump, and that was going to be my life."

Bracco desperately wanted change. She confided in a friend, who recommended that she see a therapist. But Bracco resisted. She thought she should be able to control her own feelings. And she worried incorrectly that antidepressants would dull her emotions, making it impossible to do her job.

Finally, she called her friend and got the name of a therapist. Making that first visit was the hardest step.

"Yes, it was very scary. But it was the moment I took charge," Bracco says. "Instead of letting all my problems -- my being miserable, my being unhappy -- lead my life, I realized then I was finally able to let my dreams lead my life."

The doctor gave the TV psychiatrist plenty of time to talk about her symptoms. Despite some initial reluctance, Bracco did agree to try an antidepressant.

In her therapy, Bracco got to the heart of her darkness and eventually, she says, she became more herself. "I felt a huge difference in my everyday life. Getting treatment put me on the road to recovery-to finding myself and being myself," she says.

Bracco was on antidepressant medication for 15 months. She stayed in talk therapy for two and a half years, seeing several different therapists. And her depression did not come back.

She doesn't identify her psychiatrists by name. But Bracco says you can see them very clearly when Dr. Melfi is doing good work with Tony Soprano. "Having firsthand experience as a patient helped me create a good character," she says. "I took the yin and yang of my male and female doctors and rolled them into one for Dr. Melfi. I did a lot of work to create Dr. Melfi.

"I have an understanding of what it is-the caretaker-patient relationship," she adds, to the enduring benefit of Tony Soprano, a roomful of psychiatrists, and Bracco herself.

Source:  www.WebMD.com

Did you know?

Recently, an increasing number celebrities are becoming more open about their struggles with depression. Doctors define major depressive disorder by the presence of a minimum of five symptoms of depression for a period of at least two weeks. Depression can affect anybody. Below is a list of celebrities and famous people of the past and present who have spoken about suffering from depression.

Fast Facts:

• Actors and actresses with depression: Ashley Judd, Halle Berry, Harrison Ford, Rodney Dangerfield, Owen Wilson.
• Musicians with depression: Alanis Morissette, Britney Spears, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Trent Reznor, Kurt Cobain.
• Athletes with depression: Eddie Griffin and Terry Bradshaw.
• Political figures with depression: Abraham Lincoln, Kitty Dukakis, and Tipper Gore.

^{(Source:  Organized Wisdom.com)}

^{And THAT is just the beginning....}

From the Archives - Chel in the Land of ZNE

I originally posted this a couple years ago, on my http://Chelise.Typepad.com blog.

Time has passed, but so much stays the same.

The open letter, remains:

Begin a new post.  (Originally posted, August 2007.)

I love the fact that when I start a new entry in this blog, I click on a link that says:"  "Begin a new post."  That is like the story of my life, this month. 

I am literally consumed lately with all the apologies I have to make.

 

In the meantime, I've written an open letter for all of you who have been following my blog:

An open letter to those who understand mental illness, and those who don’t:

I am starting to feel better.  I know this, because I am not so anxious.  I still owe 100 apologies and things are backed up and back logged and confused and overdrawn, but I can begin to tackle the mountain of “I am behind” without the crippling anxiety I was experiencing.

I am starting to feel better.  I know this because I am awake and lucid and can remember yesterday and know too that school starts for my children next week and I don’t need meds to get through the day without contemplating death or how worthless I am.

I am starting to feel better.  I know this, because when I type “contemplating death or how worthless I am”—I cringe inside, because I know that these thoughts do not belong to me, they belong to my illness, and I wish, oh how I wish, my illness would go away, and stay away.

For those of you who understand, you know this already.  For those of you don’t understand, all I can do is hope that my words have an impact, and that you will consider them with new eyes:

My illness does have physical ramifications, it is primarily mental and emotional in nature.   This disease is hereditary.  My mother died from mental illness and that intermingled with the undeniable fact that I am similarly afflicted breaks my heart for myself, my family, and my children, a thousand times over.  My mother’s disease went untreated, but mine does not.  This brings me some comfort.  Treatment, especially now (unlike when my mother was my age) offers an amazing amount of hope.

My particular illness is severe.  It is chronic, but not constant.  I have months and sometimes (more recently) years of relief in between episodes.  Treatment has given me and my family these gifts of lengthy interludes between flare ups.  When I am in the middle of a depression, however, it nearly always starts out the same - in this sense:  I don't want to admit it.  I don't want to accept it.  A combination of pride and denial conflict with responsible actions such admitting that there are commitments I will not be able to keep. 

I don't care whether you have a cold, a broken bone, or are severely depressed - most of us do not want it to be happening, and then - we don't want to admit that the situation will impact our productivity or reliability.  Certainly, I am that way. 

Here, in the aforementioned area - I need a great deal of growth, and will aspire to get there.  The only way I can think to start is admit right now, that it is true.  Many things have fallen through the cracks, and my responsibility was to admit my incapacity before it affected others, and I did not handle that well.  I am particularly saddened by the way that my actions have impacted Altered Art Obsession, and Paper Whimsy.  Two incredible art groups that have graciously allowed me to participate in art swaps and round robins with other incredible artists, and whose members have had to pick up the pieces I dropped, because I didn't head off the issue at the pass.

My disease requires physical and emotional therapy.  I am not required to walk a certain number of steps a day or squeeze an exercise ball., but instead my job is to issue explanations, and apologies, and to figure out how to take responsibility and be forgiving of myself, in equal measure.  There is pain and frustration involved in my physical therapy, and I often want to give up.  My pain does not resemble that of a muscle or bone coming slowly back to life, the ache and burn of torn ligaments encouraged to act anew.  My pain is identical to the gut wrenching, self defeating place we call shame.  My job, in physical therapy, is to walk through the shame, communicate and fix what I can—and put enough faith in myself and others to believe that I can back to where I was or even find a better place.

The largest misconception about mental illness, is this:  That the person suffering can change it, turn it around, or banish the illness—through strong moral character or a shift in thinking.  The only shift in thinking that has ever had a significant impact on my illness was the endless journey (which I still walk) towards ~ “I deserve to be alive.”  Those of us born with this disease begin to feel that we are born with and at—a deficit.  For over twenty years I believed I had to work harder, be a better person, look prettier, give more, do more, and—in general—be a different person—in order to deserve love, and happiness.

As many decades of therapy, fervant prayer, recovery programs, and few crisis oriented hospitalizations, a medication merryground that finally proved effective, and here I sit.  Deep breath in, deep breath out.  Still breathing.

A thousand apologies to go - and for those of you who "get it" and to those of you don't, but are willing to give the disease of mental illness your consideration - thank you for reading this, and thank you - for your understanding.

xo - Chel

PS - Here are some places you can learn more:

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/default.aspx

http://www.suicidehotlines.com/national.html

http://www.hopeline.com/

http://www.nami.org/

I love the fact that when I start a new entry in this blog, I click on a link that says:"  "Begin a new post."  That is like the story of my life, this month. 

I am literally consumed lately with all the apologies I have to make.

 

In the meantime, I've written an open letter for all of you who have been following my blog:

An open letter to those who understand mental illness, and those who don’t:

I am starting to feel better.  I know this, because I am not so anxious.  I still owe 100 apologies and things are backed up and back logged and confused and overdrawn, but I can begin to tackle the mountain of “I am behind” without the crippling anxiety I was experiencing.

I am starting to feel better.  I know this because I am awake and lucid and can remember yesterday and know too that school starts for my children next week and I don’t need meds to get through the day without contemplating death or how worthless I am.

I am starting to feel better.  I know this, because when I type “contemplating death or how worthless I am”—I cringe inside, because I know that these thoughts do not belong to me, they belong to my illness, and I wish, oh how I wish, my illness would go away, and stay away.

For those of you who understand, you know this already.  For those of you don’t understand, all I can do is hope that my words have an impact, and that you will consider them with new eyes:

My illness does have physical ramifications, it is primarily mental and emotional in nature.   This disease is hereditary.  My mother died from mental illness and that intermingled with the undeniable fact that I am similarly afflicted breaks my heart for myself, my family, and my children, a thousand times over.  My mother’s disease went untreated, but mine does not.  This brings me some comfort.  Treatment, especially now (unlike when my mother was my age) offers an amazing amount of hope.

My particular illness is severe.  It is chronic, but not constant.  I have months and sometimes (more recently) years of relief in between episodes.  Treatment has given me and my family these gifts of lengthy interludes between flare ups.  When I am in the middle of a depression, however, it nearly always starts out the same - in this sense:  I don't want to admit it.  I don't want to accept it.  A combination of pride and denial conflict with responsible actions such admitting that there are commitments I will not be able to keep. 

I don't care whether you have a cold, a broken bone, or are severely depressed - most of us do not want it to be happening, and then - we don't want to admit that the situation will impact our productivity or reliability.  Certainly, I am that way. 

Here, in the aforementioned area - I need a great deal of growth, and will aspire to get there.  The only way I can think to start is admit right now, that it is true.  Many things have fallen through the cracks, and my responsibility was to admit my incapacity before it affected others, and I did not handle that well.  I am particularly saddened by the way that my actions have impacted Altered Art Obsession, and Paper Whimsy.  Two incredible art groups that have graciously allowed me to participate in art swaps and round robins with other incredible artists, and whose members have had to pick up the pieces I dropped, because I didn't head off the issue at the pass.

My disease requires physical and emotional therapy.  I am not required to walk a certain number of steps a day or squeeze an exercise ball., but instead my job is to issue explanations, and apologies, and to figure out how to take responsibility and be forgiving of myself, in equal measure.  There is pain and frustration involved in my physical therapy, and I often want to give up.  My pain does not resemble that of a muscle or bone coming slowly back to life, the ache and burn of torn ligaments encouraged to act anew.  My pain is identical to the gut wrenching, self defeating place we call shame.  My job, in physical therapy, is to walk through the shame, communicate and fix what I can—and put enough faith in myself and others to believe that I can back to where I was or even find a better place.

The largest misconception about mental illness, is this:  That the person suffering can change it, turn it around, or banish the illness—through strong moral character or a shift in thinking.  The only shift in thinking that has ever had a significant impact on my illness was the endless journey (which I still walk) towards ~ “I deserve to be alive.”  Those of us born with this disease begin to feel that we are born with and at—a deficit.  For over twenty years I believed I had to work harder, be a better person, look prettier, give more, do more, and—in general—be a different person—in order to deserve love, and happiness.

As many decades of therapy, fervant prayer, recovery programs, and few crisis oriented hospitalizations, a medication merryground that finally proved effective, and here I sit.  Deep breath in, deep breath out.  Still breathing.

A thousand apologies to go - and for those of you who "get it" and to those of you don't, but are willing to give the disease of mental illness your consideration - thank you for reading this, and thank you - for your understanding.

xo - Chel

PS - Here are some places you can learn more:

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/default.aspx

http://www.suicidehotlines.com/national.html

http://www.hopeline.com/

http://www.nami.org/

Enlarge your future.

Forgiveness does not change the past, but it can enlarge the future.  -Paul Boese

The following post is written by an artist, a wife, a mother with a young child.  I know who she is and can only imagine how painful writing these words must have been for her.  I am friends with her socially, and for what it is worth, I would never label her with any of the terms she uses to self label.

I truly believe that forgiveness must begin from within, and you must forgive yourself first.  I wish this for her, that she can find the place from within where she can begin the long journey toward forgiveness.

She asked to keep her post anonymous, and I am respecting her request.  Here is her story:

Social anxiety and depression - every morning I pop a tiny pill down my throat and wash it down with water hoping it will make it all go away.  Better living through chemistry as they say.  What many don't understand is that it doesn't all go away with a pill.  Every day there is a war in my head in which that little pill and therapy help me win - most of the time.  

 

After the birth of my child, I was going to do everything in my power to help this tiny being live a happy full life without fear of people, of going places, of living life.  Mommy and Me classes, and Preschool.  We did them all.  Exhausted and terrified, I threw myself into these with a Pippy Longstocking attitude. 

 

I had lived mostly in a safe world of close friends and family.  Rarely did I go outside of this circle as  I've always found that many didn't understand me or my sense of humor.  The world is a bad place full of scary things.  Now that I was back, I encountered clicks just like high school, college, and work.  Leftovers from painful experiences of the past colored the now. 

 

Please God, have someone invite us to a birthday party or ask us out to the park after class or come over.  I feel so alone at home all day; I don't want our baby to be alone.  A few good people did try to befriend us, but I knew they saw my desperation and were just being kind.   And the fact that it was their kindness not "me being good enough" turned into something ugly.

 

 And started a roller coaster that lasted three years.  I wish I could apologize to these good people who stood by me.  Some I think knew, others still are clueless and wanted me to change what they viewed to be my opinions.  Many still wouldn't understand after reading this.  Many of the things I said were just delusions from that damn reactive brain trying to protect itself.  Some was just their misinterpretation because of my bad body language, trying to hard, and nervous nature.

 

A new school for a new start was my only hope.  Unfortunately there wasn't a new start.  People talk and I had a reputation now for being unpleasant, a gossip, a narcissist, even a bigot.   I keep to myself, kept quiet.   Every little thing I did was under a microscope, my intentions misinterpreted.  They wanted to know if it was true, who I was, etc.  Some were kind, some were unkind. I wonder how many knew that I cried in my car and shook uncontrollably every morning before I could muster the courage to take my child into class? 

 

Living in my Reactive Brain.Paralyzing fear where everyone is looking at me.everyone is talking about me .it is all about ME.  I want to be invisible, must appear normal.  I don't know what to say.  Then I start talking about myself or others and I cannot stop.  I interpret some things people say as an attack against me.  I start fighting back saying things that I don't mean, saying anything to make them go away

 

My big comeuppance came in the form of a class picnic.  With the exception of a few people who kept quiet.  Some started imitating me or trying to bring my behavior to light.  I went from person to person, group to group.  I was going in circles like a trapped animal.  One hissed at me a comment about me thinking my child was better than the others.  I finally left, but I had "snapped" and literally had been broken.  I managed to drive us safely home before I was taken to a doctor's office. 

 

But this event which still brings tears to my eyes was the catalyst for a new way of life for me.  I live with the realization that I will never have that clean, fresh, start I desire. Awareness is difficult and I do slip up often, the past even now keeps slapping me in the face.  I hope I am a more forgiving person and I do my best to laugh often and count my blessings every day."  

End Post

Can any of you relate to what she has written?  Have any of you let your interpretation of the circumstances of your life or the symptoms of your disease "snap you?"

Recently, I had a conversation with my psychiatrist.  I told him that when I felt ashamed or embarrassed, a terrible vision came into my mind.  A gun at my head, firing away.  Every little indiscretion caused this horrifying vision.  And I was embarressed to address it, because it seemed so very... well, melodramatic.

Here is what my psychiatrist said to me:

"Tell that vision that it does not belong to you."  (Would I ever think someone should be shot and killed for mailing a package out late? Um.  No.)  "Tell that vision that it has no power over you, and that it isn't real, and that no one is allowed to hurt Chelise in this way, so it might as well go away."

In the moment, I was frustrated.  This was his advice?  No pill?  No hypnotherapy?  No EMDR?  Just tell it to go away?

And yet - I had to do something, and so I tried what he suggested, and though it is not a perfect response - for the most part 80% of the time, it works.  My imaginary assassin scrambles away before it can even get its gun out.

I hate advice. This is my issue with a lot of my psychiatric interventions.  A suggestion is made, and I am like "oh right!  Like that is going to work!"  But some stubborn part of me stays put, listens, and then whispers in my ear "let's give this a try," at exactly the moment in which I need it.

My Dear Sweet friend who wrote the post above:  I have lost friends, tortured family, ended relationships and been left in relationships - all because of my disease.  It happens.  It's part and parcel of the misunderstanding of these brain disorders.

So before I take a new breath each day, before I step out the door, before I can attempt to be fully alive, again - I have to both start and finish with forgiveness.

It's not perfect.  I'm not perfect.  But I'll take imperfect forgiveness any day, over the alternatives.  I wish the same for you.  If I could reach out and offer you a handful of imperfect forgiveness, I would do so.  Lacking that, know that I'll hold it for you, for safekeeping, in my heart.

Here is to wishing that everyone reading this blog today takes a moment to forgive.  Forgive someone else.  Forgive your circumstances.  Forgive some higher power who dealt you really sh*tty cards.

Forgive yourself.

***

To Start ~

'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.'  'How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.

I don't have time to write alot, but I figured now was as good a time as any.  Over the past few years, I have had a myriad of health issues, but none compared to a painful and dark cloak of anxiety and depression that has, at times, ruled my days.

Because my mother died by suicide, and because I have children and am committed to modeling different choices to them, I have tried and continue to try to demystify and manage my own illness.

This blog is for anyone who suffers from mental illness, or has a family member or loved one who suffers.  If you want to learn more about the blog itself, go here:

http://chelise.typepad.com/also_my_healing/lets-start-here.html

If you are interested in sharing your own stories, or if you have questions or topic concerns - please leave a comment, and I will get back to you.  As with all efforts to demystify and destigmatize illness, the more voices that speak up, the more likely that the world will take notice.

A little more about me.  I am an artist but I won't focus on that now, that is a topic for another blog (http://Chelise.typepad.com).

My mental illness began to manifest itself when I was about 15 years old.  I attempted suicide at the ages of 18, and again at 19.

I have hospitalized for my illness (as of today) a total of 10 times.

My mother committed suicide 7 years ago.  She was 54.

More about my diagnosis can be found here:

What is Generalized Anxiety Disorder?

Generalized Anxiety Disorder, GAD, is an anxiety disorder characterized by chronic anxiety, exaggerated worry and tension, even when there is little or nothing to provoke it. More about GAD »

Signs & Symptoms

People with generalized anxiety disorder can't seem to shake their concerns. Their worries are accompanied by physical symptoms, especially fatigue, headaches, muscle tension, muscle aches, difficulty swallowing, trembling, twitching, irritability, sweating, and hot flashes. More about GAD »

and

Major Depressive Episode

Depression, which affects people of all ages, income, race, and cultures, is a disturbance of mood and is characterized by a loss of interest or pleasure in normal everyday activities. People who are depressed may feel "down in the dumps" for weeks, months, or even years at a time.

 in the same 2 weeks, the patient has had 5 or more of the following symptoms, which are a definite change from usual functioning. Either depressed mood or decreased interest or pleasure must be one of the five:

Mood. For most of nearly every day, the patient reports depressed mood or appears depressed to others.

Interests. For most of nearly every day, interest or pleasure is markedly decreased in nearly all activities (noted by the patient or by others).

Eating and weight. Although not dieting, there is a marked loss or gain of weight (such as five percent in one month) or appetite is markedly decreased or increased nearly every day.

Sleep. Nearly every day the patient sleeps excessively or not enough.

Motor activity. Nearly every day others can see that the patient's activity is agitated or retarded.

Fatigue. Nearly every day there is fatigue or loss of energy.

Self-worth. Nearly every day the patient feels worthless or inappropriately guilty. These feelings are not just about being sick; they may be delusional.

Concentration. Noted by the patient or by others, nearly every day the patient is indecisive or has trouble thinking or concentrating.

Death. The patient has had repeated thoughts about death (other than the fear of dying), suicide (with or without a plan) or has made a suicide attempt.

And I'll leave it at that, for right now. 

Questions or concerns, please - feel free to leave a response to this post.

In my next post, I'll try to shed a little more light on my personal journey.

As of this moment, I am hospitalized, but I anticipate going home to be with my family - either tonight, or tomorrow.