Only Crazy Knows Crazy

I want to preface this blog by saying that I well know I have a wonderful life, for which I am immensely grateful. I am fortunate in many, many ways, so many I can’t list them all here. I have family and friends who go above and beyond to support me, be there for me, and understand me. I have an incredibly huge ring of extended family who, while are not present in person, are supporting me from afar. I have so much love I know my cup runneth over and over and over……….

I attended my very first “mood disorders support group” this week. This is a support group run by the Mood Disorders Association of B.C. for people with, you guessed it, mood disorders. When I was first diagnosed my dad found out about these groups by way of a newsletter lying around the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic, I believe. He thought they might be helpful. I don’t remember exactly what I thought, but I don’t think I was too keen. Shortly after I remember a psychiatrist at the UBC Mood Disorders Clinic discouraging me from attending, saying that I was too high functioning and it might be discouraging for me. (When I think back, I’m not really sure what made him classify me as “high functioning” at that time… I was completely non-functioning!). So I never went to a group, although I did sign up for the newsletter and have been receiving them from the beginning of this journey of craziness.

Especially in the beginning, and from time to time over the years, other people have encouraged me to attend a support group, but I have never been able to get myself to go. Whether I have felt that I didn’t need a support group, or that it wouldn’t be helpful, or that I already had a good support system of friends and family, or that I already knew everything I needed to know through all the reading I had done, or whatever reasons that I have floated through my head, I think what I really didn’t want was to put myself in that category of people who belong in a mood disorder support group. I think what that psychiatrist said many years ago at UBC stuck with me. I pictured a group of people who were much sicker than me, way less able to function than me, way crazier than me. A group I didn’t belong in. I won’t even get into ALL of the IRONY in this (I’m trying to edit here!) other than to say we all know my background and I here I am shamefully contributing to the stigma that I so despise. Or maybe I am just fearing that stigma myself.

Other times I float the idea that maybe it’s more about not wanting to associate myself in a group like that because it just reminds me of what is wrong with me. It’s like I don’t want to be on a psych unit because I still cannot see myself as “one of those people”. I will never forget the first time I was in the hospital, in a locked room, standing at the door, looking out the small window. How many times had I stood, during my job as a social worker on a psychiatric unit, on the other side of that door? Until I was on the other side – the locked side – I didn’t truly get it. So if I were to go to a support group, I would have to put myself in a position where I have to acknowledge that I am “one of those people”. I think you can see where this thinking goes.

So, what changed? For the past couple of months I’ve been in a bit of a depression. I carry on, but my thinking is more negative, I feel more hopeless and life seems just a little harder to attend to. It’s very difficult to articulate my feelings. I often feel that I am drowning, that I am struggling below the surface with one arm flailing above, waiting to be pulled back up. But it is as if I am invisible and so I just continue to struggle below the surface. So that’s an idea of how I feel.

Two things have been at the forefront of mind these days. First, I have difficulty accepting that I am not “back to my old self.” I continuously struggle with the question “when will my life get back to normal?” As in – when I will be completely fixed and not have to deal with this anymore? Okay, something that is probably not a realistic goal, but one which I cannot seem to give up. And second, I have been feeling at times, and more so lately, an overwhelming sense of isolation in my illness. I have an incredible support network of family and friends, not to mention two fabulous doctors. Yet, I can’t help but feel at times that nobody really gets me. Like, if you don’t know, you really just don’t know. And that’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the way it is.

So after struggling with this feeling of being isolated, or alone in my feelings, I finally decided that maybe going to a support group was what I needed. Maybe it just took all this time for me to get okay with the idea. Maybe it’s just a matter of my depressed mood and feeling desperate enough for something more than I was getting from my doctors, family and friends. At the end of the day, I just suddenly felt like I really needed to be around other people who struggle with the same stuff as me. So, with a bit of trepidation and really not knowing what to expect, I attended my first group last Thursday. My expectations may have been low, although I was hoping harder than anything that this would be helpful – remember, my hand is waving madly, invisible, while I’m drowning below the surface. So I was thrilled by the actual experience.

Here was a group of men and women, of all ages, various backgrounds, various situations, various levels of functioning, all with one thing in common: a biochemical imbalance in their brains that produced fluctuations in their moods beyond the normal “ups and downs” of life. The group works like this. Each person has a chance to speak (or pass if they wish) and then everyone else can comment, ask questions, etc. As I listened to each person talk, I could relate with some aspect of what they were saying. And I mean EVERY person. I was humbled by some experiences in comparison to my own. I was overwhelmed with feelings of compassion, admiration, gratitude, and hope. Each individual was incredibly supportive of each other and I felt like I was surrounded by a group of people who, although may each have a different life, were connected by the struggles of their illness. We had all gone through (and continue to go through) similar struggles and difficulties, along with similar triumphs. These were people who knew what it was like because they knew what it was like. For two hours I didn’t feel quite so isolated in my world. Being "one of those people" was okay. My problems weren’t solved and it was emotionally draining, but I left feeling like “Yes! People who actually get it!” And for a time, my sense of isolation was diminished. I felt like perhaps someone had seen my flailing arm and had grasped my hand to pull me out of the water.

I look forward to going back next week.