Daily Archives: September 23, 2014

Generally speaking I’m not a fan of astrology. I guess I’m too cynical. Despite my disbelief, I have to admit my sign describes me with amazing accuracy. I’m a Libra and the symbol for Libras is the scale. Primarily the scale represents our sign because we are always seeking balance and are not very good […]

The post Seeking Balance appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

Sky News 13:05, UK, Friday 08 August 2014

Twitter can trigger psychosis in vulnerable people, according to a team of doctors in Germany.

Their study found that Twitter could have a “high potential to induce psychosis in predisposed users”.

The doctors looked into the case of a 31-year-old woman who was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Berlin following a mental breakdown.

She was observed spending “several hours a day reading and writing messages, neglecting her social relationships and, sometimes, even meals and regular sleeping hours”.

She had come to believe that celebrities were using Twitter to reach out to her, and said there were hidden symbols in her news feed.

After further research, the researchers concluded that Twitter could “induce or aggravate” psychosis.

They said: “She finally felt increasingly desperate because she could not fulfil all of the tasks, became increasingly afraid of what would happen to her if she did not, and finally, developed intense suicidal thoughts.

“The authors believe that the amount of symbolic language (caused by the limitation of 140 characters per Twitter message), the automated spam responses with seemingly related content, and the general interactive features of Twitter might combine several aspects that could induce or further aggravate psychosis.”

Psychosis is defined as a state of mind in which conscious reality is distorted or lost.
The woman had no history of psychosis, and nor did her family.

The study was published in the Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease.

I sat there in shock, as a psychiatrist told me I would be admitted to hospital – voluntarily or otherwise. The hospital had a bed for me, and I was to get there as soon as possible.

Sure I’d been down, and sick…but…was I really that bad?

I was told I could choose between the psychiatric ward at my local hospital, or a ward in the states only stand alone public psychiatric facility. The state psychiatric facility houses a forensic unit which probably contributes to it’s bad reputation. Additionally, there had been reports of nurses being stabbed by patients, patients being killed by staff, successful suicides on site.

“Bedlam! Absolute bedlam!” I thought. Did I want to be be admitted to a hospital whose official title used to be the “Insane Asylum”. A hospital that resulted in the neighbouring suburb officially changing it’s name so it wouldn’t be affiliated with the facility. A hospital which, to my uneducated knowledge, only REALLY CRAZY people went to?  Hell, no! I wasn’t crazy. I just needed a few days to get my medication sorted out.

So “The Dungeon” it was.

I drove home, called my husband, and started packing. Ironically I already had a suitcase packed, for the national conference I was supposed to be speaking at the following week. I took out my high heels and hairspray and replaced them with pyjamas and a pillow. That  cut deep.

Later we arrived at the Emergency Department. I walked up to triage and whispered “I’m here to be admitted to the, um, psychiatric ward.” I felt so ashamed. Such a failure. This was self stigma at its finest. It’s funny how I prided myself in wanting to take action against mental illness stigma – even choosing a PhD in the topic. Yet when I became unwell I immediately stigmatised hospitals, my illness and myself.

I was kept in the emergency department for some hours. I answered question after question, about my oesinophilic gastroentoritis, my bipolar disorder and my state of mind. I was given a white gown and a hospital bracelet. Eventually a bored looking nurse came to transfer me to the ward.

“D’ya want a wheelchair?” She asked, snapping her gum.

“Oh, no thanks.” I answered.

“Ya sure? It’s a long walk.”

“No.” I said firmly. Actually I was sick, tired and weak from the physical illness. But I wasn’t going to let anyone take that last shred of dignity I had.

The nurse wasn’t kidding when she said it was a long walk. We walked and walked in an awkward silence for what seemed like forever. Up and down halls, through corridors. Finally we reached “D” block where the ward was located. But to my surprise we had to walk down a flight of stairs to access it.

THE WARD WAS IN THE HOSPITAL BASEMENT.

It got worse when we arrived. The ward was dark and dingy. The carpet tattered and stained. Walls were peeling and in need of a good lick of paint. There was a concrete courtyard in the middle of the ward, with a few lonely benches. The nurses station looked weather worn, and contained by a large glass window ( presumably to keep us crazies out). No one came to meet us. No one was at the nurses station. We sat on a shabby couch for ten minutes waiting for something to happen.

It took all my self restraint not to run screaming.

To put things in perspective, although the main hospital was old, it was clean, refurbished and friendly. The medical unit next door to the ward boasted leather sofas, plants and stylish decor. It was made abundantly clear the priority did not lie with mental health. (Thankfully, now, a new mental health unit is being built within the hospital – however this does not explain the lack of care The Dungeon was supplied over the past thirty or so years).

When a nurse finally arrived I was given a brief tour of the ward. Bedrooms, a dingy TV room with a plate full of apples individually wrapped in plastic (plan for licking each apple indiviudally: foiled), a locked medication room…and that was about it. I was shown to my room, which I shared with three other women, said my goodbye’s to Steven, then got into bed.

This is just for a few days. I told myself. Just to get my medication sorted.

The next morning I overheard a man talking on the phone, trying to describe to his friend how to get to the psychiatric ward.

“You go down the main hallway…it’s like, forever, man. Walk until you reach a dead end. Then take the stairs. Down, not up. We ain’t got no higher ground here. We’re block D. D for Dungeon!” Then he laughed heartily.

D for Dungeon. I liked it.

Little did I know that The Dungeon would be my home for the next nine weeks. 

I often get replies and emails from people telling me how fortunate I am to have a life rife with unfortunate events.  I usually trash these well-meaning yet invasive, even brazen, suggestions that my suffering is in fact a blessing.

First I would say that compared to most of the suffering people I know and interact with, mine is petty, and I know it.  But it’s MY suffering, and I will not abrogate my right to express how I feel about it.

I would like to draw your attention to an illustration in the Bible that shows us that even the strong can suffer greatly, although they might not show it to everyone.  There are many such illustrations in Scripture, but this one has always caught my attention: the story of the prophet Elisha (student of Elijah) and the Shunamite woman (Shunam is a place-name): Kings II 4:11-37

True to a common theme in the Bible, the Shunamite woman was childless, and the Man of God (Elisha) caused her to conceive and bear a son.  The son grew and went to the fields with his father, and suddenly cried out “My head, my head!”  And fell down senseless, and his father’s attendant carried him to his mother.  His mother held him on her lap until he died, and then she carried his body to the attic room where Elisha was accustomed to stay, and she laid him on Elisha’s bed.

Then she took a donkey and rode up to the cave of Elijah in Carmel (I have been there and it is on the side of a cliff, no small feat to arrive there).  She called out Elisha and said, “Why did you give me a child if it was just going to be taken from me?”  And she threw her arms around his knees and vowed that she would not let go until Elisha came with her.

Which he did, and found the dead boy lying on his bed.  First Elisha told his servant Gehazi to lay Elisha’s staff across the child’s face, but nothing happened, so Elisha stretched himself out on top of the boy and blew into his mouth.  Nothing happened, so he walked around the house, first one way, then the other, and then repeated the mouth-to-mouth until the boy sneezed seven times and sat up.  Elisha said, “Pick up your son!”  So she fell at his feet in gratitude, after which she “picked up her son and left.” 4:37

This story illustrates that suffering does not always show on the outside.  Elisha knew that the Shunamite woman suffered because she had no child; and when her child died and she went to Elisha, she said, “Did I ever ask for a child?  Did you give me a child just to mock me?”

“What, is this some cruel joke you have played on me?”  says the Shunamite woman.   Elisha had nothing to say to that, so he had to come with her.

This is all very mysterious, and full of implied questions and gaps in logic.  The answers to the many questions raised here are addressed in the Gemara, the huge library of Jewish commentary and law.  One set of the books of the Gemara take up entire walls.

The Gemara is full of stories like the one about the woman whose child dies on Friday afternoon (the Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday nights).  Not wanting to destroy her husband’s joy in the Sabbath, she waited to tell him about their son’s death until after the Sabbath, all the while acting as if there was nothing wrong.

I heard of a great scholar in my neighborhood whose wife died on Friday afternoon, and when the Sabbath came in he rejoiced, ate and drank and sang like usual, until the end of the Sabbath, at which time he sat down on a low stool and mourned bitterly.  This he did for the Shivah week, the week after her death, and the following Friday (for Shabbat is not counted in the seven days of Shivah) he got up from his stool, bathed and changed his clothes (part of the intense mourning of the Shivah week is that we don’t do these things), and rejoiced in the Shabbat when it came in.

There is a book put out by the Breslov brand of Hassidim called the “Garden of Emunah.” emunah meaning “faith.”  Since the Breslov sect’s founder, Rebbi Nachman of Breslov, taught (in the 17th century C.E.) that we must never despair, his followers often interpret that to mean “always be happy, never be sad, and depression is a depraved state of mind.”  This book, “The Garden of Emunah,” is filled with anecdotes about horrible things happening to children, and awful illnesses happening to mothers of 12, and the theme is that they all took it as a blessing from God that they got to suffer in these ways.

I am not that holy.

If that’s what it takes to get to….wherever…..it’s like, OK God, these humans are telling me that You don’t give me anything I can’t bear.

Um, let me let you in on a secret.

You made me, right?  And You made the shoulders that are supposed to bear my burden.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the part about how You have wide shoulders, and all I have to do is give my burdens over to You, let go and let God, etc., but let me tell You, Boss, how long to I have to throw myself on the ground and cry out to You before something gives?  Am I a cruel joke, that you’ve created me and now you play with me like a cat plays with a toy?

Elisha, Elisha, where are you?  They say that Elijah the Prophet can appear anytime, disguised as anyone, especially a beggar.  I am certainly a beggar, but I am no Elijah.

I climbed up the cliff path to his cave in Carmel, and I inserted myself into a niche in the deepest part of the cave, and I prayed, and I went into another world.  I lost track of time, and almost missed my ride.  Four years later, I received a healing from something physical, Hallelu-Yah.

I have given up praying for my mental illness to be taken away.  I think of King David and King Saul, both of whom were mentally ill until their deaths.  Saul lost his kingship because of a manic act of disobedience to God.  David’s cycles of elation and crashing depression are clearly written in the Psalms.  Samuel I also illustrates the craziness of both Saul and David, as elaborated in the link above.

So to all you bearers of Sweetness-And-Light, please enjoy your easy lives and don’t envy those whose burdens appear to be heavier than yours.  As a physically disabled friend of mine says, “You are all Temporarily Able-bodied.”

I would add, “You are all Temporarily Sane.”

I often get replies and emails from people telling me how fortunate I am to have a life rife with unfortunate events.  I usually trash these well-meaning yet invasive, even brazen, suggestions that my suffering is in fact a blessing.

First I would say that compared to most of the suffering people I know and interact with, mine is petty, and I know it.  But it’s MY suffering, and I will not abrogate my right to express how I feel about it.

I would like to draw your attention to an illustration in the Bible that shows us that even the strong can suffer greatly, although they might not show it to everyone.  There are many such illustrations in Scripture, but this one has always caught my attention: the story of the prophet Elisha (student of Elijah) and the Shunamite woman (Shunam is a place-name): Kings II 4:11-37

True to a common theme in the Bible, the Shunamite woman was childless, and the Man of God (Elisha) caused her to conceive and bear a son.  The son grew and went to the fields with his father, and suddenly cried out “My head, my head!”  And fell down senseless, and his father’s attendant carried him to his mother.  His mother held him on her lap until he died, and then she carried his body to the attic room where Elisha was accustomed to stay, and she laid him on Elisha’s bed.

Then she took a donkey and rode up to the cave of Elijah in Carmel (I have been there and it is on the side of a cliff, no small feat to arrive there).  She called out Elisha and said, “Why did you give me a child if it was just going to be taken from me?”  And she threw her arms around his knees and vowed that she would not let go until Elisha came with her.

Which he did, and found the dead boy lying on his bed.  First Elisha told his servant Gehazi to lay Elisha’s staff across the child’s face, but nothing happened, so Elisha stretched himself out on top of the boy and blew into his mouth.  Nothing happened, so he walked around the house, first one way, then the other, and then repeated the mouth-to-mouth until the boy sneezed seven times and sat up.  Elisha said, “Pick up your son!”  So she fell at his feet in gratitude, after which she “picked up her son and left.” 4:37

This story illustrates that suffering does not always show on the outside.  Elisha knew that the Shunamite woman suffered because she had no child; and when her child died and she went to Elisha, she said, “Did I ever ask for a child?  Did you give me a child just to mock me?”

“What, is this some cruel joke you have played on me?”  says the Shunamite woman.   Elisha had nothing to say to that, so he had to come with her.

This is all very mysterious, and full of implied questions and gaps in logic.  The answers to the many questions raised here are addressed in the Gemara, the huge library of Jewish commentary and law.  One set of the books of the Gemara take up entire walls.

The Gemara is full of stories like the one about the woman whose child dies on Friday afternoon (the Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday nights).  Not wanting to destroy her husband’s joy in the Sabbath, she waited to tell him about their son’s death until after the Sabbath, all the while acting as if there was nothing wrong.

I heard of a great scholar in my neighborhood whose wife died on Friday afternoon, and when the Sabbath came in he rejoiced, ate and drank and sang like usual, until the end of the Sabbath, at which time he sat down on a low stool and mourned bitterly.  This he did for the Shivah week, the week after her death, and the following Friday (for Shabbat is not counted in the seven days of Shivah) he got up from his stool, bathed and changed his clothes (part of the intense mourning of the Shivah week is that we don’t do these things), and rejoiced in the Shabbat when it came in.

There is a book put out by the Breslov brand of Hassidim called the “Garden of Emunah.” emunah meaning “faith.”  Since the Breslov sect’s founder, Rebbi Nachman of Breslov, taught (in the 17th century C.E.) that we must never despair, his followers often interpret that to mean “always be happy, never be sad, and depression is a depraved state of mind.”  This book, “The Garden of Emunah,” is filled with anecdotes about horrible things happening to children, and awful illnesses happening to mothers of 12, and the theme is that they all took it as a blessing from God that they got to suffer in these ways.

I am not that holy.

If that’s what it takes to get to….wherever…..it’s like, OK God, these humans are telling me that You don’t give me anything I can’t bear.

Um, let me let you in on a secret.

You made me, right?  And You made the shoulders that are supposed to bear my burden.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the part about how You have wide shoulders, and all I have to do is give my burdens over to You, let go and let God, etc., but let me tell You, Boss, how long to I have to throw myself on the ground and cry out to You before something gives?  Am I a cruel joke, that you’ve created me and now you play with me like a cat plays with a toy?

Elisha, Elisha, where are you?  They say that Elijah the Prophet can appear anytime, disguised as anyone, especially a beggar.  I am certainly a beggar, but I am no Elijah.

I climbed up the cliff path to his cave in Carmel, and I inserted myself into a niche in the deepest part of the cave, and I prayed, and I went into another world.  I lost track of time, and almost missed my ride.  Four years later, I received a healing from something physical, Hallelu-Yah.

I have given up praying for my mental illness to be taken away.  I think of King David and King Saul, both of whom were mentally ill until their deaths.  Saul lost his kingship because of a manic act of disobedience to God.  David’s cycles of elation and crashing depression are clearly written in the Psalms.  Samuel I also illustrates the craziness of both Saul and David, as elaborated in the link above.

So to all you bearers of Sweetness-And-Light, please enjoy your easy lives and don’t envy those whose burdens appear to be heavier than yours.  As a physically disabled friend of mine says, “You are all Temporarily Able-bodied.”

I would add, “You are all Temporarily Sane.”