How I Fight Manic Depression

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Feel free to leave links to whatever posts, blogs or websites you believe will be helpful to other people… however, please leave any comments containing rhetoric about Xenu, Tom Cruise, and any preaching about the anti-pharmaceutical or anti-psychiatry movements on my About Page. Any discussion about Katie Holmes is, of course, totally encouraged. All of the quotes are from things I’ve posted on Salted about my own recovery.

1. “The disease is really just a tiny piece of something in your brain… little microscopic drips of chemicals that are just a little bit out of place or about four out of a trillion neurons sparking once instead of twice.”

The first thing is perspective. It took me a while but when I finally started to see manic depression as a disease, as a cancer, it became easier for me to fight against it because instead of blaming myself all the time, now I had a target.


2. “For too long we’ve deluded ourselves into believing manic depression was either something to be perversely proud of or something to be desperately ashamed of… but the mystique is a lie, it’s just a fucking disease.”

The other thing about perspective is language. We have one of the most overly romanticized diseases anyone can be born with. Manic depression is not Depression and Depression is not a disease. Manic depression is, however, a disease with a higher death rate than Cancer.

The difference between real emotion and manic depression is the depressions and mania’s fed to us by the Disease have no natural cause. They just Are. They are real emotions in the same sense that a flashlight gives off real light, but it’s not the Sun. Manic depression is meaningless. Most of us either dream about killing ourselves or manage to kill ourselves for absolutely no reason other than that’s what the disease is designed to accomplish.

People with manic depression don’t get depressed, we get suicidal. Half of all people with manic depression will try to kill ourselves at least once… but half will not. Manic depression, just like lung cancer, is not romantic. Treating the disease as something more than what it is only takes away from your recovery.


3. “Soon after we first get into recovery, when either nothing seems to happen or things just seem to get worse, we blame ourselves, we blame the medications, we blame the doctors and / or we blame the system. We’re not fixable, not treatable. Improvement in our first year of treatment is the same way I’d improve if you removed one of the four knives that have been pushed into my stomach. But it is improvement.”

What we don’t understand in the beginning is there are stages to our recovery that we all go through. We all wake up depressed two weeks after starting our recovery and ask why aren’t we better. We are all in danger during the first few months of our recovery of deciding everything we’ve done so far is useless.

In the beginning our treatments involve some guesswork. There are no arrows in our treatment, there are only blankets. We have to keep the doctor informed about side effects, and about recurrence of symptoms.

Because the study of the brain is only a decade removed from having to crack our skulls open to see what’s going on, our treatment and recovery depends to a large extent on our ability to accurately describe our symptoms to our doctor. So there’s a good chance you may end up changing medications a few times, this means withdrawal from one and the introduction of another.

Better diagnostic tools are not far away. Until then our recovery will not be smooth.


4. “With the medications we take there’s generally an overlap, so for a few weeks to a few months you’ll have all of the worst symptoms of the disease with all the crap side effects of the medications. Once the medications get to the proper level in your body, however, the side effects start to become less noticeable as your body gets used to them, while at the same time they start having an effect on the symptoms and the disease.”

Probably the scariest thing is the first major episode after we’ve started treatment. Most of us assign any lull in our behaviours immediately following starting our treatment to the medications. But the medications we are normally prescribed can take months to get to the proper levels in our body, then there’s usually another span of months before we can start to quantify any changes in our behaviour.

This is why doctors normally start high and work their way to lower doses. So for the first few months we usually get the worst of both worlds (side effects and symptoms).

This is why it’s so important to have a doctor monitor your progress. Unfortunately this is also when we’re most likely to panic, stop taking the medications and tell the doctor he’s full of shit… but most of the time they’re not.


5. “Manic Depression has no weight. There may be some depressing, horrible, tragic shit in your life story, but Manic Depression didn’t kill your dog, MD didn’t divorce your parents, MD didn’t kill your best friend in a drunk driving accident before you could apologize to him. Manic Depression did, however, prevent you from rationally dealing with those problems.”

One of the biggest secrets we keep from ourselves is that the depressions the disease throw at us actually end without us doing anything. We don’t come to terms with anything, we don’t work out our issues and we don’t end them by talking or crying. Untreated, or in the beginning of our treatment, the depressions handed to us by the disease come from nowhere and leave when they’re ready.


6. “[Manic] Depression is a thin coating, it’s a thin sheet of reflective ice concealing an ocean. It corrupts our ability to Reason, and without that ability we can’t defend ourselves against the thoughts inside our heads, so we find excuses we can live with. People with our disease are excellent at rationalizing unreasonable behaviour to fit situations we can’t understand.”

Other than the obvious, the one thing manic depression does to us that is more damaging than anything else is prevent us from rationally dealing with the day to day crap of being alive. We can’t study, we can’t maintain a relationship, we can’t work, we can’t save money… and all of those things, for as long as we’re untreated, add up to serious problems that we have to face when we’re in recovery.

So, one of the absolute worst things we face in our recovery is the fact we’re totally unprepared for life without manic depression. Student debt, car loans, having to face people who only knew you as the “dude without pants”. Responsibility is a heavy mother-fcuekr and we’re all delayed adolescents… I went untreated from 18-years old until I was thirty-three (ish), I missed all of the most important life lessons like “how to hold down a job” and “how to do laundry” and “the dishes should be cleaned before they evolve”.

Then there are the clinical depressions. Once the lid is on the manic depression it’s coming off all that crap we experienced before the disease popped up and during it’s reign of horrors. Sexual abuse, the death of people close to us, even the family pet… it’s entirely possible we haven’t mourned for anyone properly let alone dealt with abuse done to us.

And clinical depressions are hard to beat. It takes work and planning and interactions and tears and breaking things. They can be overcome, but clinical depressions don’t just appear and they just don’t disappear. And now, when we’re still vulnerable and raw, they will start popping up… but they can be talked away.


7. “Suicide fantasies are not you attempting suicide, they’re not even you attempting to work out the particulars of a future post-suicide funeral (“should she be crying, or wringing her hands?”), suicide fantasies are waking nightmares. They are the most recurring aspect of our disease, and the further we slide downwards the greater the frequency and the greater the risk for a very real attempt.

“People can live with Manic Depression the same way people can live with cancer, but without treatment you’re living at the whim of a tumour and it doesn’t really know you — you know, the inner softer you — so what the fuck does it care? Medication is the only way to prevent the delusion that people will understand, through your death, the pain you feel. The medications are the only way to stop yourself from taking the knife and running it across your wrists.”

It’s important to understand that the fantasies will continue for a long time. I’m in my fourth year of recovery and I haven’t had a major episode in pretty much a year. But I’ve had a few small ones since then. I am not recovered. I will never be recovered. There are no cures on the horizon, but there are better treatments and diagnostic tools coming.

The purpose of your treatment is to put time between your episodes. All the medications really do is offer you some tools because most of your recovery is totally in your hands, so you have to use those increasingly longer moments of lucidity to prepare for the ever decreasing — but still dangerous — moments of mania and depression.


8. “Because we get hit so often by the same hard emotions over time our responses become almost automatic (”I can feel the wave coming on, I should just stay in bed and not move”). Then when we experience a common depression we completely surrender before we realize we only feel depressed because NBC has preempted The Office. If Pavlov wanted to observe conditioned behaviour he could have used Manic Depressives.

“It takes a certain amount of introspection to figure out the difference, but as you learn to distinguish between your ‘self’ and the disease you’ll learn that the common depressions far out number the disease-induced ones. It was a revelation to me when I figured out that most of the time I was depressed I could actually get over them rather easily…”

There is a common fallacy that because we’ve started our recovery we must rush to find out “who we truly are”, as though recovery was a book and we can flip to the last chapter. Finding out where the disease ends and we begin is a slow, tedious process. If after ten months of treatment we find that we really don’t like exposing ourselves to strangers, well that wasn’t us. The work of recovery is day-to-day, but the results are year by year.

There will, obviously, be changes in your behaviour. I was shocked the first time I remembered I hadn’t thought about suicide in over a month. But that came after the first year. We are Pavlov’s dog. We have lived with manic depression for so long we have allowed the disease to determine our behaviour. Even as we put time between our episodes we will continue acting and reacting to everyday life as though an episode were coming on.


9. “After you’ve taken the initiative to find help it’s you that has to take the initiative to get your family involved. Your family has watched the horrors of manic depression every time you cut yourself or were violent or they stood beside you while two nurses pumped your stomach… they have the experience through watching and trying to survive your insanity, but they don’t know how to react to your recovery other than to say ‘well, he ain’t crazy anymore’.”

By the time we get into treatment and start our recovery we’ve pretty much burnt every bridge we could find then gone back and scattered the ashes. How likely is it you’ll be hired back at the agency where you explained to everyone, in great detail, how you had the magical power to deflect asteroids? Or what’s the possibility that your Significant Other, the one with the beautiful brown eyes, will take you back after that incident on the roof of your neighbour’s house?

Manic depression forces us to pull away from the people who could be part of a support network, then we use the fact no one is around anymore as proof of our isolation. We stop returning the phone calls and when the phone stops ringing it’s because no one cares about us.

In my first year of recovery I went almost four months without stepping outside. I look back on my first day out in my parent’s garden as an incredible success. But when I came back in they both gave me shit for not raking the leaves.

You can basically react to your family in two ways… one, you can get pissed off at their indifference and unwillingness to learn about the disease and just develop a giant rage-on and eventually cut your ties. Or just accept the fact they’re just happy you’ve stopped molesting the dog.

Your family has lived through years of your bizarre and abusive behaviour. Every other week for years we’ve convinced them we’re dead and it’s their fault. Every time you raise your arm, they flinch. When you raise your voice they’re expecting a rambling, incoherent sermon. As hard as it might seem you have to cut them some slack.


10. “This disease is so insanely sinister it will actually convince you, its host, that it makes you more creative, or more deep, or more self-aware, or more capable than anyone else. Our disease will even make you proud to host it. After all, didn’t ninety percent of the geniuses who ever put pen to paper have Manic Depression? Aren’t we all part of some Grand Cabal of Suicidal Societal Architects? You have the disease that turned Kurt Cobain into a legend. You suffer from the affliction that put Ernest Hemingway’s brains on the ceiling. Fuck, you’re basically one step away from actually being Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf.

“It’s incredible of what this disease can convince you. Not only will it take away any community capable of protecting you, it then convinces you this is your fault, then it makes you proud to have it and prohibits you from seeking treatment, then… and this is sick, then it kills you by convincing you everything it has done to you has been your fault.”

During the eighteen or so years I spent between diagnosis and finally starting my recovery there were moments when I tried to find help. Most of us start and stop and start and stop treatment, like a smoker trying to quit. I’d take my Lithium for a couple of weeks then stop. Or take it when I felt depressed, like it was Tylenol and I had a headache.

When I started college I stopped taking the Lithium because I found it too hard to think and write. Of course I was kicked out for not showing up and not writing enough. But I was convinced it was my fault because I was inadequate to the tasks. Sure I could recognize I had a disease, in fact I “dated” six or seven girls in my classes based mostly on their belief they could cure me. But I couldn’t connect the two big dots of Failure and Disease.

I knew nothing about manic depression other than it was the name of a Jimi Hendrix song and that it sounded cool. I was off on my own trying to stop a cancer from spreading across my lungs using nothing but time and hope. When I could breathe I thought I had scored a victory. When my lungs collapsed I thought it was a defeat.

The first book I read about manic depression was “An Unquiet Mind”. The epiphany I had was “this can be dealt with”. I tried the only thing I knew, I skipped work and walked into a drop-in clinic and got a referral to a psychiatrist. It didn’t work out, but I learned from my experience and from others along the way… hey, it’s like a circle has been completed. There you go…




18 Responses to How I Fight Manic Depression

  1. raino says:

    this is a good read, it’s interesting and i have learned something. i think that you are helping so many people with this blog.

  2. john says:

    Thanks for giving me a place to read the inside of my head. I swear it seems like I’ve been everywhere, here, before. Having been diagnosed with MD 7 years ago at age 42 after years of insanity and depression, having tried too many cocktails of meds, learning about my past and my childhood and what MD has stolen from me, also learning that I’m descended from the MacGregor clan (I’m a Brewer)… now I guess reading all of this, I realize I’m really fucked with disease called bi-polar. Makes me think of polar bears chasing penguins! haha You can’t have that, I may use it for my own blog someday.

    Thanks for your site. I’m looking forward to returning, soon.

    Meanwhile, keep popping those pills.


  3. Huitzilin says:

    Thanks for reminding me what I’m supposed to be keeping my guard up against. I’m on medications that have been working out great, but I know I’m at an easy point in my life now, and hard times are bound to complicate things sooner or later. Thanks for the reality check.

  4. James says:

    Reading through your blog really opened my eyes… I’ve been struggling with MD since I was a child, and just now have got the diagnosis… I’m 25 now. And it only took a stint in a Psychiatric Clinic to prove to myself I can’t fight it on my own anymore. I worry alot still, but there’s alot of power in those words you spoke… “It’s Just A Disease.” It took me seeing it here and knowing it came from someone like myself to actually put it to heart.. thank you for your insight into what you struggle with… never are we alone, but damn it, does it feel like it.

  5. samuel says:

    i am just diagnosed withMD ,and i am just started to take soroquel before 10 days ,what i am in is my mind i s racing ,couldn’t stop .and feeling i could no more do things the way it is , would you please tell me how i can manage this ,i have been fighting depresion for the last 10 years taking amitryptyline in my country but this time i am in norway .

  6. Hope says:

    Amazing post! Thanks for your insight…

  7. Gabriel... says:

    Thanks Hope, I’m glad I could help. I’m not sure why, but at some point I made a decision not to respond to comments made on this page… which was silly. I’ll do better in the future.

  8. chloe1234 says:

    I enjoyed your post. There is a lot of wisdom there. I have been bipolar for 41 years (diagnosed) and in treatment the entire time. It is a bitch. I am not stable and haven’t been stable for years. It’s so true what you said about the illness not allowing you to live the rest of your life.

    Stay well,

    P.S. I have a blog called Bipolar Woman that I just started.


  9. Gabriel... says:

    Thanks Joanne… it took me eighteen years to find the tools which would eventually bring me some stability, and one of them has been this blog. I hope your blog can be a tool to finding yours.

  10. H says:

    all I can say is.. I’ve been MD since early teens diagnosis.. and reading this helped me see somethings that I think to myself, esp about the creative parts on medication, and feeling that I can control it without medication.. just haven’t been a cutter for 2 years.

    Thank you Gabriel. I will continue to read. I wish you luck.

  11. Tades Haire says:

    Thanks for giving me a place to read the inside of my head. I swear it seems like I’ve been everywhere, here, before. Having been diagnosed with MD 7 years ago at age 42 after years of insanity and depression, having tried too many cocktails of meds, learning about my past and my childhood and what MD has stolen from me, also learning that I’m descended from the MacGregor clan (I’m a Brewer)… now I guess reading all of this, I realize I’m really fucked with disease called bi-polar. Makes me think of polar bears chasing penguins! haha You can’t have that, I may use it for my own blog someday.

  12. Kevin says:

    Amazing how one could feel like they are “looking in a mirror” as you describe your battle with this disease. As hard as I try to remain “sane” but knowing that the ugly monster is ready to bare its teeth at any moment is terrifying. The worst part comes from those around you that tell you to “snap out of it” be a man and come to work when in reality I’m constantly talking myself out of swallowing the whole bottle to end the misery. When only 2 weeks earlier it seemed like I had gotten my shit together. Thanks for at least giving me the comfort that with the right mess I can try to get back to normality- p.s. when I finally finish the book I’ll send you a copy -LOL

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  14. w bruce watson says:

    Though I wasn’t diagnosed with manic depression until I was 65, in the fall of 2003, practically all my life I’ve been plagued with melancholy. “Why is Irving always so sad?” my mother’s friends would often ask her. “He’s not sad; he’s just old for his age. He’s an ‘old’ boy,” she’d tell them. Melancholy imparts to the afflicted the demeanor of great wisdom, and age beyond one’s years. But you see, I was sad. Unvintageable sorrow was my lot. It wasn’t until decades later, during therapy, that I recognized that though ever melancholic, the sadness, the sorrow, the depression would come and go, and as it departed, mindless and unbounded enthusiasm would gradually take its place, and this in turn would turn to irritation and then rage. My rages were mercifully brief, lasting a few hours or so, and they seemed to be cathartic. Tears would flow, but with the tears, melancholy would return…and self hate. Each cycle would transpire over a few weeks, and the cycles would repeat over and over. Didn’t I think there was something wrong with me? No, I thought I was a bad person, a fact that I desperately tried to hide from everyone including myself, but which during moments of unbridled rage must surely have been obvious to all. And how depressed I’d become then.

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