The Russian Patient

When one has a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and totally unexpected, the natural reaction of any person would be a negation of it. And in all honesty, I am still not sure it applies to me (my diagnosis), but one thing I did learn during twenty years of my psychiatric journey is that I do need medication to treat my vulnerability to psychoses, and that there are good psychiatrists around who enter the profession in order to heal, help other people and save lives.

I noticed though that it is difficult to embrace such a choice (staying on medication), because of a strong opposition to psychiatry as such. It comes from patients mostly, those who have been harmed by psychiatric medication.

I have been there too. I was on antipsychotics that ruined my attempt at a better life. I was constantly tired, totally zombified on the prescribed meds. I was tired first thing in the morning and then progressed with my days, sleep-walking. I was often asked as to why I wouldn’t get a boyfriend (after separation from my son’s dad), and the real answer, apart from the fact that my son was small and needed my total absolute attention, was that I was too tired to offer anything meaningful in return.

And so, I sleep-walked, hating the psychiatry that didn’t have a choice for a better medication, or means to support me. I was in England then, with NHS struggling. There was no follow up after my stay in the psychiatric hospital, and no consistency in treatment.

It was horrible and I tried to stay away from it all together: mental health services and the psychiatrists.

The problem, however, with psychoses, is that they have the tendency to return, especially when the brain likes them. My ‘psychoses’ were for the most part (except for paranoia) beautiful, religious experiences. I reached enlightenment in them, and road to land back on earth was cruel. Bipolar, they say. It’s chronic. It is a debilitating illness.

I don’t feel ill though, and this has been a problem from the start. Okay, I had psychoses, a couple of them, does it mean that I should stop enjoying my life, and die from shame with a diagnosis of severe mental illness?

I decided I wouldn’t. I consistently went for my dreams, regardless of my diagnosis. I did a PhD, taught across universities, became a mother, moved to other countries, worked hard.

But then came a moment where I had to make a choice: stay away from my ‘psychoses’ or continue to endure them, because my brain is used to them, especially when I feel stress.

I was lucky to meet a brilliant psychiatrist in The Netherlands who found me medication that seems to work without side effects. Maybe they will kick in later, or maybe they won’t. No one knows the future.

But for now, I just carry on, trying to enjoy my life, on medication. I work, I raise my son, socialize with friends and write in my spare time.

I learned an important lesson: if you experience mental health problems, seek advice from a professional doctor, not online. Online we can exchange our experiences, but we shouldn’t tell anyone to stop their medication, and pill-shame anyone who chose this path.

I take my meds because I want a good quality of life. I love life and I love living.