The Stigma of Mental Illness

While the primary objective of this blog is to amuse you, the reader, with my adventures in dating, I wanted to take some time to talk about something else. Something serious. Something important to me.

Mental illness is not an easy thing to talk about. Even now, in 2010, mental illness is not widely understood; it's a broad label for many different disorders, of which modern medicine only has the basic understanding of. I think it's safe to say that when the words "mental illness" are used, what comes to mind for many people is the adjective of "crazy." If someone is mentally ill, they must be crazy. Or dangerous. Quite possibly both. There is a stigma attached to mental illness, one that is not easily shaken.

I've struggled with mental illness for over half of my life. It's a struggle that has affected my life in a profound way. Being ill has impacted both of my marriages, and in one of the marriages was the primary reason that marriage came to an end. It's affected my relationships with family and friends. For several years I couldn't work and was essentially too afraid to leave my home due to crippling anxiety.

I first became aware of my illness when I was 18. In 1987, a good friend of mine died in a senseless accident; he was swimming in a river and drowned. This happened in Portland, Oregon; I was in the Navy and stationed in Hawaii when he died. It was a devastating loss to me, and I wasn't able to return to Portland for the funeral. I was overcome with guilt as well, because at the time of his death I knew CPR, and I kept thinking that, if only I had been there, I might have been able to save him.

In the months following my friend's death, I became increasingly depressed. I started drinking heavily (a struggle with alcohol that continued until I was nearly 30, when I was finally able to stop drinking) and began injuring myself. I started punching walls, desks, anything hard with my fists. It was a way of focusing away from my mental pain, and concentrating it into my hands. When this was all happening I had no idea what was going on inside my head, only that I was no longer happy.

I can even remember watching television and seeing a commercial about depression; it listed several warning signs. All of which I had. Half-jokingly I told one of my friends about it. She took it very seriously, for reasons I would understand later. She insisted I get help, and I made an appointment with the base psychologist.

My friend's name was Margaret. What I didn't know at the time was that she was suffering from severe depression. She would eventually be discharged from the Navy because of her depression. And, most tragically, would take her own life a few months after her discharge. At that time -- and seemingly even now -- the military didn't take mental health issues seriously. Yes, basic services were provided, but the standard course of treatment for someone with serious depression was to simply discharge the person from active duty.

I began seeing the base psychologist, and we met every week for about an hour. I cannot remember what was accomplished in those sessions -- I do recall the psychologist giving me the book Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy by Dr. David Burns. I read through some of the book, and participated in my therapy sessions, but my situation did not really change at all. I began drinking even more heavily, and my incidents of self-injury continued.

I left Hawaii in August of 1990, and returned home on leave for a month. My next duty station was going to be the USS Blue Ridge. While based in Japan, Blue Ridge had been sent to the Persian Gulf in response to Saddam Hussein invading Kuwait. That's where I eventually headed, where I spent six months in the Gulf.

My depression became worse. My drinking escalated to the point where I very nearly killed myself with alcohol. By the time Blue Ridge returned to Japan in April of 1991, I was in pretty bad shape, and was removed from shipboard duty. I spent six months being "treated" for my depression, which consisted of weekly group therapy sessions. When I first met the base psychiatrist, he essentially asked me if I wanted to just be discharged, to which I replied, "Yes!" The doctor then changed direction and decided to to have me try medication. I did, for about two days, and the side effects were pretty bad, so I was just taken off the meds. The group therapy sessions continued, and after six months I was deemed well enough to return to shipboard duty.

I, of course, was not anywhere in the neighborhood of "well" at that time. I completed my military service and was honorably discharged in June of 1992.

In September of 1994 I got married. My mental illness remained untreated. And in the course of that short marriage (just three years) my illness would impact the marriage, driving my wife away by the changes in my personality. At the time this was happening I wasn't even aware that anything was wrong.

When marriage #1 came to an end, it did not take long before I was dating the woman who would become my second wife. We dated for three years and were married in 2000. Those first three years were good years; my illness was apparently in remission.

With mental illness, things can change quickly and without warning.

It was becoming clear that something was very wrong with me. My personality was changing again. My temper was short. I was arguing with my step-son all the time. I developed insomnia. I started having psychotic symptoms (I didn't know they were psychotic at the time) and episodes, as well as crushing depression.

In July of 2001 I attempted suicide. I found a bunch of pills and starting swallowing them. Anything I could get my hands on.

I started to panic, and I told my wife what I had done. She called for an ambulance and I was rushed to the emergency room. I was given liquid charcoal to soak up the drugs, and spent several hours in the emergency room for observation. And instead of being admitted into the psych ward, I was sent home, where the responsibility of getting help for me essentially fell on my wife's shoulders.

I found myself unable to work, so I left my job -- a great position with Intel as a hardware/software QA technician -- on disability.

I would never return to that job.

In the years that followed, my wife and I discovered just how difficult it was to get treatment for mental illness. Trying to find the right psychiatrist. Trying to find the right therapist. Being diagnosed. Becoming a guinea pig to many, many different combinations of drugs in the hopes that the right ones would make me better.

During this time period, I started having auditory hallucinations. The episodes of psychosis intensified. I became agoraphobic. I rarely left the house. I didn't see friends or family. My anxiety levels were always high. I could barely drive a car. I developed OCD symptoms.

My wife was in mourning; she frequently made references to the "old" me. Of course, the "old" me was gone. The new me: not so enjoyable to be around.

We went for months without sleeping in the same bed together. We were no longer intimate. It was a horrible situation to be in. I felt incredible guilt over what was happening. An incredible burden was placed on my wife's shoulders.

By mid-2006, I seemed to be getting better. My wife remarked that I was more like the "old" Scott again. We were communicating, we were intimate again, and while my sleep schedule had changed for the worse, we were back to sleeping in the same bed again.

Unfortunately, this would prove to be temporary, and by November of 2007 the marriage was under strain. In December of 2007 my wife had had enough, and kicked me out of my home.

I was homeless. I hadn't been working for years, so I had no money. Over the next several months I lived with family, and it wouldn't be until 2009 that I actually came to having my own place to live.

In June of 2009 my insomnia took a turn for the worse: I went several days without sleep, and my depression returned. I became suicidal again. I was discovering that sleep meds were not helping me at all. Nothing was helping. I stopped taking my medications. My depression got much, much worse. I started researching how to take my life.

By February of 2010, my depression had reached a new low, and I was very much ready to kill myself. I did manage to become lucid enough to check myself into the hospital, and spent a few days in the psychiatric ward.

At the hospital I was put on a new medication, a mood stabilizer called Depakote. It's used to treat manic-depression. It's helped me a great deal, in combination with an anti-depressant. I'm sleeping -- not well, but getting a few hours each night. I'm finally stable. I'm relatively happy. I'm dating again, which quite frankly I didn't think I'd be doing. I've been at my job for almost two years, which is quite the accomplishment for me, seeings as how I spent much of the years 2001-2007 not working.

I'm not cured. There is no cure for mental illness. You can treat it, and with the right combination of medication and therapy, live a life where the illness isn't in control. I'm thankful for the support of good friends who have helped me through this. And I've been inspired in unexpected ways by people I don't even know. You know who you are.

I'm not crazy. I'm not dangerous.

I'm Scott. I have a mental illness.

Update: June 4, 2013
In the three years that have passed since I wrote this, I have remained (largely) symptom free.  I still experience anxiety-related symptoms from time to time (mostly social anxiety and some OCD stuff) but I haven't had a psychotic episode in so long I can't even recall the last time.  While I still get down or experience the blues, I haven't had an episode of depression since 2011 or so.  I used to have a pretty severe driving phobia, and now I can drive without issue.

This has all happened without me being on any kind of medication.  Back in 2005 I wouldn't have even  thought it was possible.  I'm grateful for this period of recovery.  I'm definitely the "old" Scott again.

Dates Two and Three

Much to my surprise (okay, I'm very cynical) my dinner date at that tasty, tasty Thai restaurant led to a second date. Since all of my dating knowledge was formed in the 1980s (because I'm old) my idea was to go see a movie. Not very original, I know, but still, it's something to do.

We went to a theater in Vancouver, WA called Cinetopia. This place is awesome. Movies are projected in high-def on huge screens, and the seats are nicely spaced so that there's plenty of room. The downside is that it's expensive.

We went to see How to Train Your Dragon in 3D and had a good time. Like Roger Ebert, I'm not a big fan of the whole initiative to make every single movie in 3D. But HTTYD was done well, and the 3D was effective. And now I've officially gotten off target.

Now, the one unusual aspect of this experience (aside from it being unusual in the sense that I'm actually spending time with a woman) is that my lady friend is a bit younger than me. Okay, she's a lot younger than me. As in I'm a walking middle-aged cliche at the moment. I'm not always the most conventional person you'll meet.

I've never actually dated someone who was significantly younger than me. The most has been a two-year age difference. And dating someone who is a lot younger than you requires a change in thinking, in the sense that I can't really expect her to think and behave the same way I would; I have to look at things from her perspective.

After the movie date I didn't hear from her for a while, and of course I started to get a bit paranoid as to why. Was this a case like so many women experience, where after a date the man doesn't get in touch with you? No, just turns out she was busy. We did finally reconnect and made plans for date number three. Which would be another movie. I know, I know. I'm working on coming up with better dating ideas.

We returned to Cinetopia, this time to see Iron Man 2. We had a good time, despite not liking this movie as much as the first one. Our time together was short but we made plans to see each other again. Our next outing will probably be to the Portland Zoo. She's expressed an interest in horseback riding, something I probably will not do, in large part due to my fear of being flung off of the back of the horse and breaking my brittle bones (I'm old, remember?)

Whatever happens, we're enjoying each other's company and slowly getting to know each other. We're not rushing into anything either, which is a smart thing to do.