Posts tagged bipolar
Posts tagged bipolar
[Film of Interest] Here One Day
In 1995, Nina Williams Leichter, the brilliant wife of a New York state senator, committed suicide by jumping from the 11th floor of her apartment building. Though she had struggled with manic depression, Williams had always been an energetic figure who tried to bring public attention to mental health issues. Her suicide shattered the lives of her family: her husband and two children, Josh and Kathy. Sixteen years later, Kathy Leichter, now a filmmaker, returns to stay in her parents’ apartment. Amid the collected letters, clothes and empty medication bottles, Leichter makes a discovery. In a plastic case, she finds dozens of audio cassettes made by her mother, emotional often rambling messages attempting to understand the madness overwhelming her. Over time, Leichter begins to chronicle, then come to terms with the full depth of her mother’s mental anguish. Here One Day is a powerful personal statement, threading together the disparate strands of Williams’ sorrow, ultimately becoming a moving evocation of life itself.
Here One Day attempts to educate and reduce stigma around mental illness and suicide, to link audiences to support, and to teach how mental illness and suicide impacts families. The film is available for DVD purchase and for community screenings facilitated by the film’s award-winning director, Kathy Leichter. For more information go to: http://www.hereoneday.com or contact her at email@example.com.
For more mental health news, Click Here to access the Serious Mental Illness Blog
[In the News] The Violence in Our Heads
By T. M. Luhrmann
Stanford, California. — The specter of violence caused by mental illness keeps raising its head. The Newtown, Conn., school killer may have suffered from the tormenting voices characteristic of schizophrenia; it’s possible that he killed his mother after she was spooked by his strange behavior and tried to institutionalize him. We now know that Aaron Alexis, who killed 12 people at the Washington Navy Yard on Monday, heard voices; many observers assume that he, too, struggled with schizophrenia.
To be clear: a vast majority of people with schizophrenia — a disease we popularly associate with violence — never commit violent acts. They are far more likely to be the victims of violence than perpetrators of it. But research shows us that the risk of violence from people with schizophrenia is real — significantly greater than it is in the broader population — and that the risk increases sharply when people have disturbing hallucinations and use street drugs. We also know that many people with schizophrenia hear voices only they can hear. Those voices feel real, spoken by an external, commanding authority. They are often mean and violent.
An unsettling question is whether the violent commands from these voices reflect our culture as much as they result from the disease process of the illness. In the past few years I have been working with some colleagues at the Schizophrenia Research Foundation in Chennai, India, to compare the voice-hearing experience of people with schizophrenia in the United States and India.
The two groups of patients have much in common. Neither particularly likes hearing voices. Both report hearing mean and sometimes violent commands. But in our sample of 20 comparable cases from each country, the voices heard by patients in Chennai are considerably less violent than those heard by patients in San Mateo, Calif.
Describing his own voices, an American matter-of-factly explained, “Usually it’s like torturing people to take their eyes out with a fork, or cut off someone’s head and drink the blood, that kind of stuff.” Other Americans spoke of “war,” as in, “They want to take me to war with them,” or their “suicide voice” asking, “Why don’t you end your life?”
In Chennai, the commanding voices often instructed people to do domestic chores — to cook, clean, eat, bathe, to “go to the kitchen, prepare food.” To be sure, some Chennai patients reported disgusting commands — in one case, a woman heard the god Hanuman insist that she drink out of a toilet bowl. But in Chennai, the horrible voices people reported seemed more focused on sex. Another woman said: “Male voice, very vulgar words, and raw. I would cry.”
These observations suggest that local culture may shape the way people with schizophrenia pay attention to the complex auditory phenomena generated by the disorder and so shift what the voices say and how they say it. Indeed, that is the premise of a new patient-driven movement, more active in Europe than in the United States, which argues that if you treat unsettling voices with dignity and respect, you can change them.
The Hearing Voices movement encourages people who hear distressing voices to identify them, to learn about them, and then to negotiate with them. It is an approach that flies in the face of much clinical practice in the United States, where psychiatrists tend to assume that treating such voices as meaningful encourages those who hear them to give them more authority and to follow their commands.
Yet while there is no judgment from the scientific jury at this point, there is evidence that at least some people find that when they use the Hearing Voices approach, their voices diminish, become kinder and sometimes disappear altogether — independent of any use of drugs.
This evidence is strengthened by a recent study in London that taught people with schizophrenia to create a computer-animated avatar for their voices and to converse with it. Patients chose a face for a digitally produced voice similar to the one they were hearing. They then practiced speaking to the avatar — they were encouraged to challenge it — and their therapist responded, using the avatar’s voice, in such a way that the avatar’s voice shifted from persecuting to supporting them.
All of the 16 patients who received a six-week trial of that therapy found that their hallucinations became less frequent, less intense and less disturbing. Most remarkably, three patients stopped hearing hallucinated voices altogether, even three months after the trial. One of those three patients had heard voices incessantly for the prior 16 years.
The more we know about the auditory hallucinations of schizophrenia, the more complex voice-hearing seems and the more heterogeneous the voice-hearing population becomes. Not everyone will benefit from the new approaches. Still, they offer hope for those struggling with a grim disease.
Meanwhile, it is a sobering thought that the greater violence in the voices of Americans with schizophrenia may have something to do with those of us without schizophrenia. I suspect that the root of the differences may be related to the greater sense of assault that people who hear voices feel in a social world where minds are so private and (for the most part) spirits do not speak.
We Americans live in a society in which, when people feel threatened, they think about guns. The same cultural patterns that make it difficult to get gun violence under control may also be responsible for making these terrible auditory commands that much harsher.
For more mental health news, Click Here to access the Serious Mental Illness Blog
For more mental health news, Click Here to access the Serious Mental Illness Blog
[Article of Interest] The Problem With How We Treat Bipolar Disorder
By Linda Logan
The last time I saw my old self, I was 27 years old and living in Boston. I was doing well in graduate school, had a tight circle of friends and was a prolific creative writer. Married to my high-school sweetheart, I had just had my first child. Back then, my best times were twirling my baby girl under the gloaming sky on a Florida beach and flopping on the bed with my husband — feet propped against the wall — and talking. The future seemed wide open.
I don’t think there is a particular point at which I can say I became depressed. My illness was insidious, gradual and inexorable. I had a preview of depression in high school, when I spent a couple of years wearing all black, rimming my eyes in kohl and sliding against the walls in the hallways, hoping that no one would notice me. But back then I didn’t think it was a very serious problem.
The hormonal chaos of having three children in five years, the pressure of working on a Ph.D. dissertation and a genetic predisposition for a mood disorder took me to a place of darkness I hadn’t experienced before. Of course, I didn’t recognize that right away. Denial is a gauze; willful denial, an opiate. Everyone seemed in league with my delusion. I was just overwhelmed, my family would say. I should get more help with the kids, put off my Ph.D.
When I told other young mothers about my bone-wearying fatigue, they rolled their eyes knowingly and mumbled, “Right.” But what they didn’t realize was that I could scarcely push the stroller to the park, barely summon the breath to ask the store clerk, “Where are the Pampers?” I went from doctor to doctor, looking for the cause. Lab tests for anemia, low blood sugar and hypothyroidism were all negative.
Any joy I derived from my children was now conjoined with grief. I couldn’t breathe the perfume of their freshly shampooed hair without being seized by the realization that they would not always be under my roof. While stroking their backs, I would mentally fast-forward their lives — noses elongating, tongues sharpening — until I came to their leave-taking, until I reached my death and, ultimately, theirs.
I lost my sense of competence. If a colleague remarked on my intelligence, I mentally derided him as being too stupid to know how dumb I was. If someone asked what I did for a living, I would say, “Nothing” — a remarkably effective conversation stopper. I couldn’t bear the thought of socializing; one night I jumped out of the car as my husband and I were driving to a party.
Despite having these feelings in my mid-30s, when my kids were 8, 5 and 3, I was thriving professionally: I had recently completed my Ph.D. in geography, had just finished co-teaching a semester at M.I.T. as a lecturer and was revising my dissertation on spec for a respected university press. Yet several nights a week, I drove to the reservoir near my home, sat under a tree and, as joggers and their dogs ran past, thought about ending it all. There was a gun shop on the way to my poetry group; I knew exactly where to go when the time came.
My day, once broken by naps, gradually turned into lengthy stretches of sleep, punctuated by moments of wakefulness. My husband and I didn’t explain to the kids that I was depressed. “Mommy’s a little tired today,” we would say. A year or so earlier, a therapist told us to tell the children. “But they’re just kids,” we said. “What do they know?” “They know,” she said. When we eventually spoke to them, my oldest daughter came to me and asked: “Why did you keep it a secret? I thought all mothers were like you.”
After a few weeks of stopping at the reservoir, as suicide eclipsed all other thoughts, I finally told my husband about my worsening psychic pain. The next day I was hospitalized. It was June 1989. Even though we were living in Boston, we decided I should go to Chicago to work with the psychopharmacologist who, 15 years earlier, restored the health of my father, who had also been hospitalized for depression. As the cab pulled away from our house, I turned and saw three children’s hands pressed against the screen of an upstairs window. This is the way the world breaks.
The moment the psych-unit doors locked behind me, I was stripped of my identity as wife, mother, teacher and writer and transformed into patient, room number and diagnosis. I couldn’t open a refrigerator without permission. If I were on suicide watch, I had to ask before going to the bathroom. I was told when to sleep and when to wake, when to eat and when to go to group. My routine, which at home had cleaved so closely to my children’s, now revolved around the clattering sounds of the food trays being brought three times each day from the service elevators into our unit. With my husband and children nearly 1,000 miles away, I was severed from my fixed stars. I missed my children’s smells, the way they used to wrap their bodies around my legs when I was on the phone. I brought my son’s comforter to the hospital for my bed. I remembered him with one leg thrown across the covers, a small foot peeking out from his pajamas.
When my children visited, I had to resuscitate my maternal self, if only for an hour. I dragged myself to the shower, pulled on a pair of clean sweat pants and a fresh T-shirt and ran a streak of lipstick across my lips, hoping to look like a reasonable facsimile of a mother.
My doctor used my first hospitalization as a so-called washout, a period during which he planned to take me off the medication I was on and introduce several drugs in several different combinations. The prospect of polypharmacy — taking many drugs at once — seemed foreboding. I read about Prozac’s giving some people entirely new personalities: happier, lighter, even buoyant. “Who are you going to turn me into?” I asked my doctor.
“I’m not turning you into anyone,” he said. “You’ll be yourself, only happier.”
“I don’t think I even have a self anymore.”
“We’ll find your self.”
I was wary. “Just don’t turn me into Sandy Duncan.”
How much insult to the self is done by the symptoms of the disorder and how much by the drugs used to treat it? Paradoxically, psychotropic drugs can induce anxiety, nervousness, impaired judgment, mania, hypomania, hallucinations, feelings of depersonalization, psychosis and suicidal thoughts, while being used to treat the same symptoms. Before getting to the hospital, my daily moods ranged from bad to worse, each state accompanied by a profound depth of feeling. The first drug I was given was amitriptyline (Elavil), which, in the process of reducing my despair, blunted all my other emotions. I no longer felt anything. It was like going from satellite TV to one lousy channel.
For many people with mental disorders, the transformation of the self is one of the most disturbing things about being ill. And their despair is heightened when doctors don’t engage with the issue, don’t ask about what parts of the self have vanished and don’t help figure out strategies to deal with that loss.
Some in the mental-health field are beginning to recognize this need. Janina Fisher, a psychologist and the assistant director of the Sensorimotor Psychotherapy Institute in Broomfield, Colo., told me that there has been a “sea change” in the role the self plays in the therapeutic dialogue since the decades when I was sick. New therapies and treatment philosophies, founded mostly by clinical psychologists and other practitioners who are not medical doctors, recognize the role of the self in people with mental illness. Patients tell her, “I just want to be that person I used to be.” Fisher encourages her patients to recognize that their mental trauma is a part of their life, but shouldn’t dominate it.
In my own experience with Scheftner, whom I began seeing after my father’s doctor moved away, we talk about the self but only when I bring it up. That’s why I have enjoyed helping to run a support group for people with mental disorders, something I’ve been doing for the last three years. There are usually 8 of us, sometimes 12. We sit in the basement of a local library every Wednesday afternoon. Though we know one another’s innermost thoughts, we are intimate strangers, not friends. Like A.A. and other self-help groups, we’re peer-led: run by and for people with mental disorders. We talk one by one about the past week — small achievements, setbacks, doctor appointments, family conflicts. While the self is not always an explicit topic, the loss of self — or for those doing better, the reconstruction of the self — is a hovering presence in the group.
One day, not long ago, a middle-aged man came to our group. He told us that he spent the past year attending different grief groups, but none of them were right. “Why not?” someone asked. The man said: “Because everyone there was grieving over the loss of another person. I was grieving for myself. For who I used to be before I got sick and who I am now.”
During the 20-odd years since my hospitalizations, many parts of my old self have been straggling home. But not everything made the return trip. While I no longer jump from moving cars on the way to parties, I still find social events uncomfortable. And, although I don’t have to battle to stay awake during the day, I still don’t have full days — I’m only functional mornings to midafternoons. I haven’t been able to return to teaching. How many employers would welcome a request for a cot, a soft pillow and half the day off?
One morning, about five years ago, my husband and I were talking on the family-room sofa. I was still wearing my pajamas and had wool hiking socks on. As he rubbed my feet, he told me he was leaving. It was, at once, a scene of tenderness and savagery. A little later, he threw some clothes into a suitcase and moved out. But my self — devastated, grieving, angry — remained intact.
Today, my mind is nimble. Creative writing has crept back into my life. I’ve made a couple of close friends in Chicago. My greatest pleasure is still my children — they’re starting careers, marrying, on the brinks of their lives. I’m looking forward to grandchildren, to singing the 1950s favorite “Life Is but a Dream” while spinning those babies under the stars of a falling night on a Florida beach. This June, I’m turning 60. I’m having a small party to celebrate my ingathering of selves. My old self was first to R.S.V.P.
Dr. Seikkula talks about the Open Dialogue approach to psychiatric interventions, in which he describes how this approach was developed, as well as the basic principles of the approach which have emerged from analysis of the results.
Open Dialogue is a Finnish alternative to the traditional mental health system for people diagnosed with “psychoses” such as “schizophrenia” is “Open Dialogue.” This approach aims to support the individual’s network of family and friends, as well as respect the decision-making of the individual.
Find out more about Open Dialogue HERE.
Fountain House is about the power of community. It was created to relieve the loneliness and stigma that affect so many people who are living with serious mental illnesses, like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and major depression. Serious mental illness disrupts lives - people lose their jobs, they drop out of school, they alienate their families and friends, and they end up alone.
Visit the Fountain House Blog
[Article of Interest] I’m Elyn Saks and this Is What It’s Like to Live with Schizophrenia
By George Dvosky
Elyn Saks first started noticing that something was wrong when she was 16. One day, and without reason, she suddenly left her classroom and started walking home. It turned into an agonizing journey in which she believed all the houses in her neighborhood were transmitting hostile and insulting messages directly into her brain. Five years later, while attending law school at Oxford, she experienced her first complete schizophrenic break. Saks struggled over the course of the next decade, but she came through thanks to medication, therapy, and the support of friends and family.
Schizophrenia as a health condition is as neglected as it’s misunderstood. People tend to get squeamish when it comes to mental illness, convincing themselves that it’s not a wide scale problem, or that people who suffer from it are lost causes. At the same time, many people cling to outdated notions about the disorder.
Indeed, schizophrenia is not as rare as some people think. It has been estimated that anywhere from 0.3 to 0.7 percent of the population is afflicted with it. For a country like the United States, that’s anywhere from 940,000 to 2,200,000 people. And the costs are enormous, estimated at $62.7 billion per year in the U.S. alone. Yet, schizophrenia receives only a small fraction of the amount of medical research dollars that go into other serious diseases and disorders.
It’s also commonly mistaken for multiple personality disorder, what’s now referred to as dissociative identity disorder (DID). These two conditions are distinct, though some crossover exists; DID patients sometimes exhibit psychotic symptoms. Also, both DID and schizophrenia can be triggered by traumatic experiences. But that’s where the similarities end.
Another common misconception about schizophrenia is that people who suffer from it are extremely violent.
"And that’s just not true," says Saks. "Most people with schizophrenia are less violent, but are more likely to be victimized.” The big, violent folks, added Saks, tend to be teenage males and substance abusers.
There’s also a misconception that all people with schizophrenia can’t hold down a job, and that they lose the ability to work in any kind of meaningful way. Or that they can’t live independently, that they need some kind of supervised living arrangement.
Like many other psychological disorders, schizophrenia follows along a spectrum in terms of its severity. While many people can become incapacitated by their symptoms, Saks argues that most of them could benefit from drugs and therapy.
And indeed, Saks is convinced that there are more “high functioning” people with schizophrenia than is typically assumed. To that end, she, along with her colleagues at UCLA and USC, designed a study to recruit high functioning people with schizophrenia in the LA area. Specifically, they were looking to study professionals, a group that included MDs, PhD candidates, teachers, CEOs, and full-time students.
"I mean, we got 20 subjects fairly quickly," she told me, "I started to suspect that I wasn’t unique, that there were many other people like me. It would interesting to know what the stats are on how many people with schizophrenia are so-called "high functioning" professionals."
Moreover, Saks is convinced that, with proper resources, nearly everyone can live up to their potential — regardless of their situation or status.
"There are going to be some people who you do everything for and they still won’t be able to thrive," she says, "But I think many more people can do better than we give them credit for — but instead, we prematurely tell people to lower their expectations.”
Indeed, antipsychotic medications have revolutionized the treatment of schizophrenia — and they work startling well. "A lot of people get on medication and they completely recover and never require therapy," says Saks. But there are some people who don’t respond to medication — and that, she argues, is where therapy and social support could potentially help.
“The best evidence with major mental illness shows that the most effective strategy is to use a combination of meds and a therapy for choice,” says Saks. “For me, I know I need the therapy and the medication. I need both of them. If one of them were to go away I would probably be really compensated.”
Saks is currently in psychoanalytic treatment, where she attends sessions five days a week. And by doing so, she’s going against the grain; conventional wisdom says psychoanalytic treatment shouldn’t work for people with psychosis. But she’s convinced it’s helping.
Saks told me about several aspects of psychoanalytic treatment that have been tremendously beneficial for her — and they’re not typical things that psychoanalysts do.
For example, because stress is particularly bad for psychiatric illnesses, Saks has been taught to identify her stressors and avoid them. Or cope with them at the very least. She has also learned to bolster her “observing ego” — that part of her brain which allows her to step back and observe her mind, feelings, and thoughts in order to understand them and not get swept up.
"It’s also a place where you can bring your thoughts," she says. "A lot of therapists have a rule where their patients cannot articulate their delusions or hallucinations — but to me you need to have a place where you can do that, where it’s safe. It’s sort of like a steam valve. I don’t have to do it in my outside world, I have a place where I can do it in therapy.”
Another important thing, says Saks is insight.
"People have different theories about psychotic symptoms," she says. "Some people think they’re just the random firing of neurons that don’t have any meaning. But I think they have meaning and that they tell you some truth about your psychological reality. So, when I say I’ve killed hundreds of thousands of people, it’s really an archaic way of saying I feel like a very bad person. But even though it’s meaningful in this sense, it doesn’t help patients in the moment of the psychotic symptoms that they interpret.”
Saks believes that extreme and exaggerated ideations are a defense mechanism — which in some circumstances can make a person feel better or safe.
Saks closed our conversation by noting that, outside of medications and drugs, it’s people who can make the greatest impact.
“It’s so important to have a benign, smart, caring, non-judgmental person that accepts you — not only for the good — but for also the bad and the ugly,” she said, “That is incredibly empowering.”
Could you tell us a little about yourself?
I’m a bipolar artist. I create primarily for therapy, and it works quite well. You can find me at mebeingsocial.tumblr.com !!
Was your submission created about or in an extreme state?
It was created to show the many volatile moods of bipolarity. This is how it feels not being able to rely on yourself, or your mental state. It also looks like a psychotic state to me. Any sort of negative/shocking mental state really.
[Video of Interest] Stephen Fry: The Secret Life Of The Manic Depressive
Stephen Fry presents this documentary exploring the disease of manic depression; a little understood but potentially devastating condition affecting an estimated two percent of the population. Stephen embarks on an emotional journey to meet fellow sufferers, and discuss the literal highs and lows of being bi-polar. Celebrities such as Carrie Fisher and Richard Dreyfuss invite the comedian into their home to relate their stories.
In addition, Stephen looks into the lives of ordinary people trying to deal with the illness at work and home, and of course to the people studying manic depression in an effort to better control it. A fascinating, moving and ultimately very entertaining Emmy Award-winning programme.
[Article of Interest] Enhanced creativity in bipolar disorder patients: A controlled study
By Nancy C. Andreasen, M.D., Ph.D.
Chair of Psychiatry and Director of its Neuroimaging Research Center and the Mental Health Clinical Research Center at The University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine
Excerpt from the article: People have wondered whether there is a relationsip between creativity and mental illness, or “genius and insanity” in popular parlance, at least since classical times […]The following are only some of the writers who have died by suicide during the twentieth century: Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Anne Sexton, and Virginia Woolf […] In the twentieth century this association has been supported by several techniques commonly used to examine familial transmission of various illnesses, including evaluation of first-degree relatives of creative individuals and examination of biological and nonbiological adoptive relatives of creative individuals adopted at birth
Eighty percent of the writers [examined in this study] had had an episode of affective illness at some time in their lives, compared with 30% of the control subjects. A surprising percentage of the affective disorder was bipolar in nature; 43% of the writers had had some type of bipolar illness, in comparison with 10% of the control subjects. Both of these differences were statistically significant. In addition, the writers had significantly higher rates of alcoholism (30%, compared with 7% in the control subjects).
40 percent of the successful creative people [researcher Nancy Andreasen] investigated had [bipolar] disorder, a rate that’s approximately twenty times higher than it is in the general population.