The Distance to Crazy
| January 7, 2013 | Posted by Issa under Radical Self-Acceptance |
While I’ve repeatedly addressed depression through my adult life, it’s only been in the last few months that I’ve started trying on the word “disabled” for size. Disabled felt comfortably vague. It’s been mere weeks since I’ve referred to myself as mentally ill. Isn’t that interesting? Depression is definitely a mental illness, but “I am mentally ill” feels different than, “I have depression”.
Crazy is something else even beyond that.
That little word crazy gets a lot of mileage. It has a lot of meanings, although they generally all boil down to the negative stereotypes we have about mentally ill people. Bad, evil, unimaginable, violent, wrong. Frantic, out-of-control, fantastic, unpredictable. Too much. Too big. Too fast.
I know people who are crazy. Dissociative identity disorder definitely means you’re crazy, right? I know at least two people who are that kind of crazy. Crazy also means things like kooky, eccentric, “out there”. I know people who are that kind of crazy, too. Being involuntarily committed because of self-injury or alcohol-related behavior, that’s probably crazy, yes? I know people with that experience. All of these people are my friends. I love them, respect them, think they’re smart, capable, interesting people worth knowing and having around. Even though they are also crazy. Maybe because they are crazy. Maybe I like crazy, given that I know so much of it.
I have previously tried calling myself crazy and found the word wanting. I can lay claim to the term because depression is a mental illness, but it didn’t sit perfectly. I know some mental disability writers who use the word “madness” and it doesn’t sit well with me, either. It sounds too romantic. And it sounds like crazy. Which is something that I’m not.
Then I went to see a new psychiatrist. I had tried Zoloft for awhile with the last treatment place. I didn’t like the place; I didn’t like the results on Zoloft. I tried not being on anything again for awhile. Yeah. That wasn’t working, either.
New place. New doctor. New session. The first one with all the questions. I love the questions. Oh, you mean I get to talk about myself for an hour? Bring it on.
At the end of the session, the doctor said, “Bipolar”.
She said, “Yes, yes, you have depression and anxiety, too, but bipolar.”
Turns out I’m crazy.
That day the person you’re paying a gazillion dollars to tell you what’s wrong with you tells you you’re crazy is the day that you really find out what you think about crazy people. I spent a good long while trying to deny that I could be crazy. I’m not crazy! I’m depressed! I’m just a little bit sad! Yes, I’m the kind of sad that cries in a ball in the cold water in the shower in a completely dark room. But I’m not crazy! Just a little dreary. Yes, by “dreary” I mean having completely nonsensical thoughts about how somehow I am the mastermind of all that is wrong in the world.
Turns out I was already crazy, even if I was calling it depression.
But now that I’m calling it bipolar, a whole new perspective opens up. It’s kind of confusing. Life is about storytelling. It’s about what kind of narrative you build about the things that happen to you and the things that you do. You can never remember every single detail, and you can certainly never relate every single detail to another person. So we storytell. We pick and choose. We fit ourselves into the plot and the roles that we’ve chosen.
I’ve been going back through the 15 years and trying on the filter of bipolar rather than the filter of depression. It makes some things make sense. There are ways I’ve behaved in the past that come in cycles and that are pretty stereotypically manic. I’ve previously thought of them as just “not depressed”. But I’ve also been distressed about not being able to fit back into those behaviors even when I am feeling not depressed. Describing them as mania makes the story make some sense.
On the other hand, it’s pretty damn disturbing to chalk entire relationships, entire parts of my personality, entire years to “episodes”. It’s even more disturbing to think about “curing” them. On the other hand, my depression is nearly unbearable sometimes, so I’d give up a lot of things to relieve it.
I’ve started on a new treatment path with this new diagnosis as the starting point. It’s too soon to tell how it’s going.
And I’ve started getting comfortable with the word crazy. I was fooling myself when I thought I wasn’t. I was harboring a hierarchy of mental illness and holding on to negative beliefs about mentally ill people that I didn’t know were there. Now that I’ve noticed those thoughts they certainly aren’t allowed to stay.
I am a mentally ill person. I am mentally disabled. I have depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. I am crazy. Nice to meet ya.
I remember when I got my first diagnosis that made sense to me. It was a relief. I analyzed all the cycles that repeated themselves and found that it fit. I was mad about it a little. One of those if I’d known sooner, just think of all the pain I may not have endured. I researched everything I could find and tried to pick up the things that worked and put down the things that didn’t. I’m still having trouble with that. Still having trouble with meds. But, it doesn’t feel so terrible anymore to make a mistake or to not try to do my best all the time. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get it right, but this time I know what to look out for. Good luck to you.
Thank you.
I have depression and PTSD. Nice to meet you too, so to speak.
This is a lovely essay. It really describes the conflict that’s inherent in coming to accept being mentally ill. For me, the tough part comes when I start feeling better. Then I tended to think that is was all just a bad patch, but I’m fine now. Bad trap to fall into. I now realize it’s chronic and permanent.
That’s not to say I’m one bit happy about that realization.
I’m so glad you have a definitive diagnosis now. There’s some relief in that, along with the conflict. Keep processing, and if you want to share it with people who love your writing (me), then so much the better.
I have that trouble, too – when things are good, I think they will always be good, that things are “solved” now. It’s a trap, indeed. Thanks for your kind words.
I have a long history and family history of depression and bipolar disorder. It did take me a long to accept the diagnosis but that’s all it is — a diagnosis. I’m not going to tell you how to think but I think describing yourself as crazy is a little extreme. I mean, if you are ok with it, then ok. Having seen my own father, grand-father and several uncles live with the disease, I wouldn’t say they were “crazy” they went on to live healthy and productive lives. It is completely manageable. Some days are a bitch, but manageable.
FWIW, I went to a bipolar support group for a period of time. I found it helpful. One of the things the group moderator said once has always stuck with me: “You have bipolar disorder [or whatever diagnosis] but YOU are not bipolar”. You are not the disease, you are more than a disease. I like to reflect on that sometimes when I’m having a bad day.
I think crazy may have some similarities with fat for me. There’s no are-you-or-aren’t-you. I’m just fat. Might as well get used to the word. And more importantly, what negative things are being associated with the word that make us not want to use it? Can I be crazy AND healthy and productive? What is it about crazy that you want to shy away from? Why is it extreme?
It sounds like we are interested in different lines of coping, because the last thing you said there doesn’t ring true for me, either. I am not ONLY my various parts, but I AM my various parts. I am fat, I am bipolar, I am a brunette, I am a writer, I am a parent, I am a small farmer, etc. No one would say, “You have a farm, you are not a farmer, you are more than a farmer.”
Like my posts about fat, my posts about mental health are in the category Radical Self-Acceptance. I think we do some interesting juggling to lock certain parts of ourselves off into unreachable boxes. I’m looking to open those boxes.
So interesting to hear your thoughts. I can understand needing to come to terms with what the definition means once you find yourself put into it.
I remember in college finding out, through a friend’s abnormal psychology textbook, what exactly was different about me. It had a name! It was at once freeing and terrifying. Freeing, because it explained so much and made me feel less alone and “other.” Terrifying, because I was in an abnormal psychology textbook.
Made me chuckle. :-)
BiPolar 1 or 2?
I have Bipolar2, major anxiety and depression. Nice to meet you sister crazy!
*hugs*
Bipolar NOS, actually, which does give me some pause. It sort of sounds like “maybekinda bibolar”. I still think of it largely as depression. The treatment is definitely different, though, (mood stabilizer in the mix) so I’m interested to see if that helps.
Hi Issa, I have you in my Reader and this post caught my eye. Just wanted to say hello and that I think you’re very brave!
It is interesting the relationships we form with words. I don’t mind being called crazy or mad. I know I am strange and behave in a way that is not average.
But mentally ill or disabled? Nope. I am neither of those things. Those words says “broken”, “sick”, “weak” to me. To be disabled for me is to be less than factory standard. To be ill is to not be at your normal operations. Less than total.
But I am total, 100% Kitty. Yes, Kitty might be depressed, she might be manic, she might be paranoid. But those of standard Kitty features. Those are part of the package.
Some cars don’t have sunroofs or leather seats, but that does not make them disabled. That makes them what they are. You can’t expect a Honda Fit to be a Mustang. Or a Mustang to be a Honda Fit.
To say I am disable or mental ill, is to say there is a better me, if I could just fix this thing. But what if the thing is not fixable? Like you have a 2 door car, but you want a four door. No amount of wishing is ever going to add two seats. If I am bi-polar for example, then I just am, that is my normal.
But crazy or mad feels like a paint job or fuzzy dice. Or a busted fender. Just as real, but not as horrible. Not as negative. If you are crazy then you just are, there is no expectation of fixing it.
That is not to say I am against treatment. If you want to be a happier you, a shiner you, a more productive you fine. If you want to paint a Honda Fit with racing strips, go for it.
I use the word crazy lots! I love it, now. It was kinda like my adoption of the word slutty or fat. I definitely see that parallel. Because yes, on paper, I am, in fact, crazy. Wanna know the craziest part? Accepting that and learning to work with what I am, rather than trying to be what I’m not, made me saner than I’ve ever been in my life. But still crazy and that’s okay.
I got really excited reading this entry, because it sounds like you’re in a really good place with all of it and I’m happy for you and I want to talk to you gobs about it as you go through the process.
<3
I’m comfortable with using the word “nuts”. I figure I come from a fairly long line of “nuts”, but my daughter is the first one to go to a psychiatrist. My husband (not her father) asked me why she sees a shrink because (to him and everyone else) there’s nothing wrong with her. I said, “Nuts”. It’s simple and we like it. Her young daughter is also “nuts”, it looks like to us, and why not? She’s a woman in our family. She’ll lead a productive life (someday with medication) and probably only those closest to her will even know she has mental illness.