Men and Women Apart
Some days are full of ecstasy, inexplicable and physical. There is a tingling sensation in the brain, the eyes open, and a giddy tension collects in the shoulders. Daily life takes on a healthy sheen and glow: mornings are crisper, sunsets are pinker, the sky’s horizon is magnificent. It stretches for you, for lovers, and friends. Bright signs sparkle in the night⎯ the world has new meaning. But you have no rationale.
Soon, and without notice, everything turns. Nothing significant has happened, nothing completely terrible, but all goes dark. The process is immediate. A light has switched off in a large, empty room. There is no reason to live; what did you want to live for? You can’t remember. Life has no meaning.
Such is the cycle of mental illness. You can do things to make it better. You can exercise. You can eat well. You can write, or absorb yourself in cherished work. You can surround yourself with good people and try hard to keep them. If you’re like me, you can do all five, but you can also take 100 mg of medication daily. Every morning you can take your pill, and for each pill you take, you think of how you can’t possibly take them your whole life.
But things are much easier this way. The streets are crowded; the race is long, each day is a test in social interaction. The pill makes you stable. Mental excess is lifted. Handshakes go well. You say witty things at parties, remember birthdays, are sent invitations and offered jobs. Yet all the while you feel you’ll never be completely free from who you are. You will never be like them, and don’t know if you can manage without treatment.
________________
When I stop taking my pills, I suffer withdrawal. My head floats to the clouds. I feel ten feet from my body. (All this struggle to get sober, only to move to another addiction). My mental functioning turns into a thought deficit. I am sitting on a bus, staring out the window. Someone asks a simple question that I can't answer. I look back vacantly. They think there’s something wrong with me. They think I'm stupid. I think saying anything would be futile, because no single sentence can explain where I have been and what I have done.
But there is hope. Surely there is. Old habits die hard, but they do die, and we are gravediggers.
Soon, and without notice, everything turns. Nothing significant has happened, nothing completely terrible, but all goes dark. The process is immediate. A light has switched off in a large, empty room. There is no reason to live; what did you want to live for? You can’t remember. Life has no meaning.
Such is the cycle of mental illness. You can do things to make it better. You can exercise. You can eat well. You can write, or absorb yourself in cherished work. You can surround yourself with good people and try hard to keep them. If you’re like me, you can do all five, but you can also take 100 mg of medication daily. Every morning you can take your pill, and for each pill you take, you think of how you can’t possibly take them your whole life.
But things are much easier this way. The streets are crowded; the race is long, each day is a test in social interaction. The pill makes you stable. Mental excess is lifted. Handshakes go well. You say witty things at parties, remember birthdays, are sent invitations and offered jobs. Yet all the while you feel you’ll never be completely free from who you are. You will never be like them, and don’t know if you can manage without treatment.
________________
When I stop taking my pills, I suffer withdrawal. My head floats to the clouds. I feel ten feet from my body. (All this struggle to get sober, only to move to another addiction). My mental functioning turns into a thought deficit. I am sitting on a bus, staring out the window. Someone asks a simple question that I can't answer. I look back vacantly. They think there’s something wrong with me. They think I'm stupid. I think saying anything would be futile, because no single sentence can explain where I have been and what I have done.
But there is hope. Surely there is. Old habits die hard, but they do die, and we are gravediggers.