Daily Archives: April 22, 2018

Running Away From Home

photo by Karen Cox

When I was a teenager, I lived in Ohio, and all I wanted to do was leave. The suburb I lived in was homogenous and boring. The surrounding area had little to interest me. I was miserable. When it came time to select a college, the first thing I ruled out was anything in the state of Ohio.

It did not occur to me then that the reason I was miserable was not the state of Ohio, but bipolar disorder. And of course I took that with me to college.

When I returned to Ohio and began living in a suburb very near the one I grew up in, my friends were astonished. “I thought you hated Ohio,” they said. “I never expected you’d come back here to live.”

What I had been seeking was a “geographical cure” for a problem I didn’t know I had. I thought could outdistance it, outrun it, make a new life for myself somewhere better.

Believe me, it’s not possible; unless you are trying to leave an abusive relationship, moving somewhere else will do nothing for your underlying problem. Probably not even then.

The next time I had a chance to take the geographical cure – to move to Pennsylvania – I turned it down. I had by that time built up a support system in Ohio of family, friends, and doctors, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them and trying to build a new support system in an unfamiliar place. (Eventually, my husband-to-be moved from Pennsylvania to Ohio, where we’ve lived ever since.)

But there are still times when I think about running away from this life. Often, I wish the Mothership would arrive and take me away to some interesting planet or galaxy.

But sometimes, when life just seems to be too much for me, I think of simplifying my life by starting over somewhere. It would be like being in the Witness Protection Plan, I always imagine. I’d live in a small, unimposing town somewhere. I would have a bookstore (maybe used books). I would live in a small apartment over the shop with one or two cats.

But alas, that wouldn’t work. Aside from the difficulties of moving, which I loathe, I would find myself in another place where I had no support system – no doctor to prescribe meds, no therapist to continue my progress with (I hate breaking in new doctors), no family or friends or husband. (I usually picture myself on my own, except for the cats.)

And life would be just as difficult, if on a smaller scale. I would still have days when I couldn’t get out of bed and open the store; weeks when I couldn’t bring myself to shower, driving away customers; times when the loneliness would become overwhelming. I would still have trouble with finances, health, isolation, shopping, business, et endless cetera. At least I would have a lot of books to read.

I would still have bipolar disorder. I might be able to replace some of what I would have to give up; it wouldn’t be easy or freeing. But sometimes I still like to imagine that it would be.

If my husband dies before I do, I may find myself in some form of such a solitary life and have to adjust to it, though I would most likely remain in my comfortable suburb, where I know a few people and have some great friends, and a psychiatrist and a therapist. I doubt I would again attempt a geographical cure unless forced by circumstances to relocate.

But I wouldn’t enjoy it, just as I wouldn’t really if I ran away from home now. The bipolar would just come with me, hopping into my suitcase before I even packed my underwear.

Seeing the light in the darkness of depression

A lot of people struggle with something. Whether that’s having overly busy schedules, trying desperately hard to meet all of life’s demands and perhaps added challenges of dealing with life and a health condition. But what I’ve learned in trying to find a balance of all these things is that even in our most difficult times having hope can be the game changer.

In my role as a mental health advocate I often hear very challenging stories of people living with mental illness or their loved ones walking the journey with them. It’s not superficial conversations. These connections with other people are deeply personal. I feel grateful that I can be a person who can bear witness to the struggles of others, because even in those very trying stories having hope keeps people going.

Anyone who had ever been handed the card of depression knows how important finding something positive to hold onto gets one through the tough times. There’s a reason depression is the number one disability in the world. It causes the regular struggles in life to be much more difficult.

There’s an image I am using in my upcoming talk this week in Athens, Ohio. It shows an entirely dark room with a door open and a crack of light shining through. It reminded me of a day when I was sleeping 16 hours a day during a depressive episode. As I lay in bed I squinted my eyes when the sun slightly shined through the crack in the blind. A tear streamed down my face, as I held onto the hope that one day I would recover.

No matter your challenge, your struggle or the mountain your climbing, know that eventually if you keep striving toward the light-things will get better.

In my view hope is a life saver.