Recovery is Possible

I’m Annie, no Anne…no Annie is fine. I have a diagnosis; one that you can infer makes it

difficult, at times, to make decisions. I’ve got what is called Bipolar Disorder, so I’d like to share with you a true story of profound experiences that have come to define me in so many ways.

My earliest memories are solidified with equal amounts of joy, self-expression, discovery, innocence and freedom. Sanity was only a term mothers used to describe the many challenges that came with raising children, so needless to say, I had no clear understanding of it. My brother and sister, both older, seemed to look at me with astonishment since I managed to keep myself free of harsh punishment when my parents saw fit to carefully discipline us. Thus, I became known as the mildly defiant child with benign attempts at gaining attention and plenty of spirit and energy.

As a young adult I blended into the common family expectations where average girls like me became healthcare workers, teachers, and office workers and usually followed suit in marrying and having children. After earning a diploma in surgical technology, I entered healthcare, but my free-spirited personality left marriage at the door. If it hadn’t been for the frequent emotional intrusions that derailed me in my early 20’s I’d probably be enjoying grandparenthood.

My first recollections of these mood disruptions began while sewing my wild oats of

independence, where I moved into an apartment with my sister and her friend. I had just broken up with my fiancé, ten years my senior, who was a charismatic guy and endlessly doted over me. We used to attend a nondenominational church and that set the perfect stage for my first manic episode. The euphoric displays of hyper-religious fervor had me saving souls to wayward people in the city and the rush of energy I felt kept me up late into the night, where my favorite Christian bands entertained my mind.

But stepping off a bus after a routine workday introduced a startling depressive episode where suicidal thoughts pummeled me like an avalanche. For some reason I still remember that day with such clarity and can’t begin to describe the terror of those obsessive thoughts and raw emotions. What once defined me as a happy-go-lucky young woman now imprisoned me into a world of severe hopelessness and agony. Fortunately, my father had the insight to seek help for me and within the next year I began therapy and started seeing a psychiatrist who prescribed my first antidepressant.

About five years later, at 27, I moved to Southern California and my pie-in-the sky adventures had me hopping from job to job and apartment to apartment. Aware that I had diagnosis of bipolar, a couple of occurrences with the police and a few severed relationships reminded me that my life couldn’t sustain the ordinary patterns that I once took for granted. Well into my thirties, my shoddy work record and multiple moves revealed an extremely unstable lifestyle and an accompanying broken spirit.

By the time I was 40, I had been hospitalized at least six times, predominantly for depression and mixed episodes of hypomania and anxiety. I had been on almost every psychotropic medication that I could pronounce and at times my mood was so persistently fragile that I was given a series of ECT treatments that seemed to offer no relief. I thought that I was being medication compliant, talking through my issues, going to support groups and reading all the right books. Still I couldn’t grasp a note of stability for any period of time.

Later that year I was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent all the traditional western treatments which eventually required having a complete hysterectomy and throwing me into ‘surgical menopause’. The turmoil would only complicate my mental health which required more medication management and hopeless attempts at other treatments. The menagerie of confusion had me seeking countless psychiatrists and other doctors and my waning resolve left me with so few options that, at 50 years old, I had to move back to my parents’ house in Wisconsin.

When I returned to San Diego, I had nowhere to go and with a fourth stay at the psychiatric hospital that year, I had to be placed in an independent living facility for women. By then I had little hope of returning to work or even sustaining a part-time job and then slowly I began to find the support and steady care of close friends and family. I had been on Social Security Disability income for years and the collectors continued to call and remind me of my tattered health history; but I was able to recognize the fortunate few mental health services that became accessible. With a bit of a foothold on my condition and enough input from these resources I gradually found shadows of hope and the idea of recovery.

Beginning with a commitment to steady psychiatric care, individual therapy, a strong network of support, and a vision of returning to work, I began to recognize the ‘healthy’ sides of Annie. Through various mental health agencies and programs, I reentered my career as a surgical technician and my self-esteem propelled me into better mental health. With an occasional blip on the screen, I have been living symptom free for 16 years and enjoying a meaningful life filled with joy, fulfillment, and better mental health than I would have never dreamed of.

The saving graces in my life have been parents who always supported me, good friends who tolerated my instability, assistance from advocacy groups like DBSA, NAMI, and some exceptional doctors and therapists. As I further embark into a brighter future I find myself in the mainstream at 66, semi-retired as a caregiver and assistant to seniors.

Now Annie…or Anne, is a grateful, empowered person and I can redefine myself as more than my diagnosis.