The Formidable Journey

I’m not really sure where this story begins, and I surely don’t know how it ends. I’m sure all stories like mine are that. These things are experienced on a continuum, and we just live it in real time. At some point, I stopped thinking beyond the here and now. That is a common and quite necessary state to exist in when it is impossible to determine what crisis or chaos may envelop the current day. I may not have a clear beginning or ending, but I do know one thing. Regardless of what the day may bring upon waking and throughout, each moment is a gift. Breathing is a gift. Smiling, laughing and dancing are all gifts. Eating, bathing and completing mundane chores, even. Those are surely gifts. Engaging in relationships with people around us is surely the greatest gift of them all. I have seen how difficult it is for people to understand these things, and I do get it. It is easy to take it all for granted; getting out of bed, going through the day, functioning as society expects. Before this journey began, I had little knowledge of psychiatric disorders or addiction. I am a well-educated middle class woman who was born into a family of psychologists, and the information and research is out there, so I really have no excuse for my ignorance. The only defense I have is that, until something like this touches you personally, it may be nearly impossible to relate to. I never bought in to the stigmas or judgement others seem to have, but I really didn’t know. How could I have? Sometimes, when I let my mind go there, I think it would have been in some ways easier if my son had been born with diabetes or even autism, than with bipolar disorder and addiction. At least those diseases are well-researched. At least there are clear treatments for diabetes and autism. At least those diseases aren’t judged by society as character flaws or chalked up to poor parenting. At least people wouldn’t blame my son for his illness. If he had been born with diabetes, no one would ever tell him to “snap out of it”, or dismiss him or his health issues as though he were worthless. If he’d had some other biological illness, I wouldn’t have felt compelled to keep it “private”. I wouldn’t have been “shushed” by well-meaning friends when I spoke a little too loudly at the coffee shop about the current opiate epidemic in America. I would have been able to discuss his challenges at social gatherings without the inevitable judgement that seeps into any conversation that arises relating to his struggles. If he had been born with almost any other illness, it would have been easy to take sick days to transport him to critical doctor appointments, and my colleagues might have understood why I couldn’t stay late for meetings or why I didn’t attend a workshop on a Saturday. I could have simply said “my son is ill”, and no one would have questioned it, or deemed me unprofessional. They would have offered empathy and support, perhaps share their own, similar experiences in understanding. Maybe that sounds dramatic or insensitive to say that I sometimes wish my son had any other lifelong disease than bipolar and addiction. Maybe it even sounds as though I am not accepting him for who he is, or that I am being insensitive to children born with those diseases. I don’t mean it to seem that way. We all have our own struggles to overcome. Yet our experiences have been made so much more difficult because of the societal stigmas and misunderstandings attached to them. The judgement, and lack of empathy, even from professionals in the mental health field, delayed proper treatment, and created an environment for my child which is practically impossible to navigate successfully. A person who has a psychiatric illness is often treated as though they are deficient in morals, or character. “He is lazy. Make him get off the couch.” “He’s being overly sensitive. He needs to learn to be tougher.” “He’s too impulsive. He needs to learn his lesson.” “He needs to learn to do things for himself. Let him figure it out on his own.” Add addiction to that, and they are expected to “cure” themselves through sheer will power and determination. “It’s his own fault for using drugs to begin with.” “If he doesn’t want to be an addict, he should just quit.” And my favorite: “Tough Love. Let him hit rock bottom. He needs to do this on his own.” These are all commonly held public beliefs about psychiatric disorders and addiction. And yes, I have heard them all, even from “experts” in the field. I imagine if my child had diabetes, no one would ever say to me “He needs to learn to be tougher.” Or “If he doesn’t want to be diabetic, he should just stop.” Instead of the supportive net of best-practice treatment and medical care in place for almost any other disease, those who suffer from psychiatric disease and addiction are isolated from the very things that would make their treatment most effective; support, understanding, guidance. We all have our own journey to live, and we all have struggles to overcome. Disease, illness and even death are inevitable. When you suffer from psychiatric diseases or addiction, the formidable journey to health is made nearly insurmountable by the misconceptions surrounding your illness. My son doesn’t WANT to be an addict. He doesn’t CHOOSE to be depressed or manic. He suffers from his illness similarly to those with any other disease. He WANTS to be healthy. He WANTS to feel normal. He struggles because of two research determined, biological illnesses that require medical treatment like any other. The manifestations of his illness are both physical and behavioral, and they deserve society’s empathy and support as equally as diabetes does. This is the story of our formidable journey. It has no clear beginning, but everything starts somewhere.