Life Unlimited Stories
Each month, DBSAlliance.org features new, empowering stories of individuals whose lives have been touched, but not limited by, a mood disorder. Our hope is to provide inspiration to individuals living with depression or bipolar disorder—to acknowledge that, though there may be dark times, there is also hope, and we are not alone.
If you would like to participate in our Life Unlimited feature by sharing your story, please submit your contact information here.
 Noeline Piris-Maldonado
What I have learned about living with and overcoming bipolar disorder can be summed up in three words: faith, hope, and knowledge. Faith cements your hope that you will overcome, and knowledge informs on how to live well, using better judgment in managing what can be a devastating and life-altering disease.
After a diagnosis of bipolar disorder in 2001, which came at the heels of a harrowing post-partum season of my life, I momentarily lost more than just my sanity and ability to cope. I lost the solid footing under me of memories and experiences of my life as I was swept up in a whirlwind of retrospective questioning. As a spiritual person, I had revisited every “mystical” encounter and questioned it. As a new mom, I revisited every decision I had made and wondered if I knew what I was doing. The questions continued: Was my marriage based on manic impulsivity? Was this the reason why I could never finish anything I started? Or spent uncontrollably? Or was increasingly anxious and paranoid of people and the world? Finally, was I really just the sum total of chemicals gone awry in my brain?
I was left to figure myself out, believing that I was stricken with something so dark and awful that I could never find anyone with whom I could relate. I didn’t have cancer. I didn’t have high blood pressure or heart disease or diabetes. I was—as I believed—weaker than the world in mind, body, and soul, and I would never measure up. My highs and lows were devastating. The depressions were abysmal beyond description, and I consider myself someone who finds it pretty easy to describe things. The suicidal ideations were always by my side. But all hope was not lost.
Reluctantly, I began taking medication and attending individual and group therapy that very same year. I quickly (and gratefully) learned that I didn’t need to hang up my faith in God, life, and health, because I was in good company. Interestingly, before my diagnosis, I remember always relating all too well to writers and poets, the likes of Emily Dickenson, Charles Spurgeon, Samuel Johnson, Robert Frost, William Blake, and even being disturbed by but understanding Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath’s plight. I found I understood them somehow. Now I know why.
And now I have actually met and dined and spent quality time throughout the years with many brilliant but burdened minds who have shown me that I am not alone and that I am actually in the best company. Fast forwarding to today, I started college in 1993, the same year of my first actual “break” or manic episode, and finally graduated with a Bachelor of Science in 2005. The road in between was not always easy, but was definitely worth it. I am now entering my second semester of graduate school. To learn more about the great minds that baffle and inspire me, I am working towards a Master of Arts Degree in English Literature and Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry.
My journey has been a long one and it continues. I have found health through a plethora of resources including my faith, medication, therapy, the support of my friends and family, my son’s smile, and informing myself incessantly on everything from research to the experiences of contemporary published authors and celebrities who fight along with me. Know that you don’t have to lose your faith, but you just have to grow its boundaries. See that hope is everything even in the most unsuspecting things: creation, the miracle of life itself, artistry, music—the list goes on. And educate yourself on what is happening in your brain and your emotions. That is more than half the battle! There’s always hope. There’s always a reason to look in the mirror and say, “I’m not just a survivor. I’m an overcomer.” There really is nothing you can’t still endeavor to do.
Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me—Anything can happen, child, anything can be.
–Shel Silverstein, Poet
 Michelle Katz
A diagnosis of bipolar disorder can change your life in an instant. Learning to not be defined by that diagnosis takes faith, support, and sheer will. My diagnosis came in September, 2001, but I had been suffering for years before that. I struggled with rapid-cycling mood swings that could take me from euphoric highs to agitated depressions within days, sometimes hours. Medication brought no relief, other than to render me too cloudy and lethargic to do much of anything. I had to leave behind a promising career in the law because working became impossible. I was not physically or emotionally available to my husband who struggled daily to take care of me and provide a stable home for our two daughters.
I was lucky to have disability insurance, and spent the next few years trying to cope with the illness. I saw a therapist, and I had a support team of friends and family. I tried some simple jobs and some community involvement, but the depression, hypomania, panic, and anxiety always got in the way. Each time a new symptom arose, I was back at the doctor for another medication adjustment. The changes never brought relief and often had undesirable side effects. By 2005, I was on a cocktail of seven medications that left me so disoriented I could barely leave home.
It was then that I went to an affective disorders clinic at a hospital three hours from my home. It was worth every mile of the trip. That consultation resulted in a change in meds that gave me a new lease on life. It took months to make the adjustment, and it wasn't easy. I faithfully took my meds, kept all my therapy and doctors appointments, and engaged my support network. And, I got better.
Then the disability ran out, and we simply could not survive on one income. I started looking for a job. Although things were going much better health-wise, I had no idea whether I was up to the task. Could I stay focused? Could I stay on task? Could I even manage to get to work every day and on time?
I would have worked in any job that produced a paycheck, but I was fortunate to find one in human resources, a field related to my former law practice. I took a chance and told my closest co-workers that I had bipolar disorder, because I knew I would need them to be part of my support team. They were compassionate and understanding. There were times I thought I would never make it through the day, but they were there to help me stay the course. I have been employed full time since then. I have been able to further my career with positions of increased responsibility, and I am now the human resources director for a rehabilitation hospital. I've served on the board of my professional organization and volunteered with community organizations and my daughters' schools.
Working a steady job was important, but I also needed to find an outlet for a personal passion: performing. In 2007, on a whim, I auditioned for a community theater production. I hadn't done theater since I was in my 20's. I was thrilled to land a role in the ensemble along with my husband and daughter. It was a challenge—six weeks of rehearsing several nights a week and weekends, all while working full time and having a family. I had to promise myself to sleep regularly and take my meds to keep balanced. I've never worked so hard or had so much fun. Then two years later I did another show, and another after that. This summer, I will perform in my seventh musical production since returning to the stage. I have joined a women's choir that is as much about support and sharing as it is singing. I have even started to take ballet. Nothing makes me feel more alive than taking the stage, and I count my fellow actors, dancers, and choir-mates among my closest friends.
It's been twelve years since my diagnosis. No one thing has allowed me to live a life this full. I'm thankful each day for the people in my life who told me it would be better, helped me believe it, and then made it come true.
 Hakeem Rahim
“Never Give Up.” Three bold
words written across my favorite SGI International t-shirt.
The simple phrase resonates with a lesson that I learned from living with
bipolar disorder: be relentless. Living
with bipolar disorder for twelve and a half years made me relentless in never
giving up on myself, in fully pursing my spirituality, and in never giving up
on others.
From my initial diagnosis, bipolar disorder taught me to be
relentless. Although I was riding in the backseat of my parents’ white minivan
that spring of 2000, mania brought me into a New York psychiatric emergency
room. I was speeding towards a wall of confusion in my manic state. I saw
Jesus on the corner in one moment; in the next, I could speak Russian. Insight
deluded me. Five hours after being brought to the ER, I was admitted. Now
separated from my parents, I began my journey to piece my sanity back
together.
That summer, I prepared to return to Harvard University for my junior
year. It would be four years later, however, that my graduation robe would
hug my shoulders. My time at Harvard became a mix of highs and lows, but
mostly lows.
“My couches were like coffins—they held the seat of my dreams,
sleep was stitched into cushions of my love seat.” These lines are from my
original poem “Nadir,” and speak to the depression that I experienced.
In spite of the highs of the few hypomanic episodes and the
multitude of depressive lows, my spirit was relentless. Over the course of
years, I stuck to my treatment plan, adjusted my regimen according to doctor’s
orders, worked with my helping professionals, attended support groups, and
developed healthy coping mechanisms. Because of my condition, I could never
give up in the pursuit of a balanced me.
My illness taught me to also be relentless in my pursuit for a
spiritual connection. Even though the anguish of depression had me curled
up on my dorm room floor, I still prayed. I sought the balance of spirituality
and the comfort it brings. The relentless pursuit of spirituality was essential
for me to realize that the moods and cycles that I experienced were a
reflection of the larger spiritual system and nature’s ebbs and flows. Although
difficult in the midst of experiencing the highs and lows, I gained comfort in
knowing that I was not alone; even the seasons spoke to my condition.
My mother held her head in the way that only a distressed mother
can that night in the ER. Even through my manic fog, I could see the pain
on her troubled face. Now, looking back, I know what that was—a mother’s
love. My father expressed his love in his own way: “Go to sleep, son, go
to sleep,” he said in his tenor voice, trying to coax me to rest. I was
helpless as a little child. Yet, this same distress made my parents
fearlessly relentless.
My parents, 007 stand-ins,
twice shuttled me from Harvard back to NY because I could not complete the
semester. I left during the cover of night. Both times my parents were
there to swiftly whisk me away. I had my parents, but more importantly, I had
two souls who would not give up on me.
Looking back on those nights, I see that my parents had a
relentless faith in my ability to pull through the mania and the depression.
Their relentlessness taught me a profound lesson: do not give up on
others. The question that I ask when I see some of my friends going through
the throes of depression is, “How can I give up on you?” I may not be able
to help each one of my friends, but I know I can say a prayer and believe.
Twelve years after my diagnosis, I
am proud to say that I have obtained dual masters degrees from Teachers
College, Columbia University, pursued a coaching certification,
and loved each bit of helping students while working in higher education. I am
the proprietor of Live Breathe, LLC, a consulting business which focuses on speaking, coaching,
and group leadership for college students, companies, and adults. I also
work with National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) in two capacities: as a presenter
for the In Our Own Voice program and as an outreach coordinator for the
Breaking the Silence lesson plan distribution project in Long Island. I record and write poetry, exercise, and maintain a vegan
diet. Please feel free to contact me or join my Facebook page to find out about the work I do.
Twelve years later, I am
strengthened by my guiding life purpose and the knowledge that I cannot give up
on myself, others, or my spiritual practice. I am certain relentlessness is
built into my DNA.
 David Granirer
My first depression hit when I was 16. After an increasing downward spiral of drinking and abusing prescription drugs, I attempted suicide by overdosing on pills and was taken to the psych ward. I remained there for six weeks. Upon my release, I felt this crippling shame, this horrible sense of being flawed and bad. Unfortunately, there was no education at the time and no one explained to me what I was going through. My whole personality changed from that of an extrovert to that of a hermit who isolated and avoided people. Amazingly, my depression was not diagnosed at this time and I wasn’t given any medication or much help. For the next 17 years, I lived with untreated depression that colored everything in my life.
After high school, I went to music school to pursue my dream of becoming a professional guitarist, but my depression got in the way. I thought it was normal to have periods, sometimes for weeks where I felt totally down and unable to play. It was incredibly frustrating. I knew I loved the guitar, but half the time I felt like I didn’t care about anything. When things weren’t going well, I would plunge into depressions that lasted up to a year, isolating myself from everyone, sleeping most of the time, and spending hours watching TV. At 26, I hit rock bottom. Doctors told me that my music career was over due to a case of recurring tendonitis. I felt like my life was at an end. I just wanted to die.
Then something changed. Looking back, I realize that my depression temporarily lifted, and, all of a sudden, I couldn’t isolate myself anymore. I had to get involved in something. I began to do volunteer work at the Vancouver Crisis Centre and found something besides music that I loved to do and was good at. The Crisis Centre saved my life. I met all these great people who were volunteering there, and I really enjoyed being on the lines, partly because I could totally relate to many of the callers.
Eventually, they hired me to be their trainer, and I began to make use of my gift with humor by bringing in fun things to do with the volunteers during their training. Everyone loved it, and I started to get calls from some of the volunteers’ employers asking if I could come in and do workshops for their staffs. It was at this point that my career as a professional speaker on humor in the workplace was born. Today I give presentations to hundreds of organizations across North America, speaking at conferences, conventions, and corporate events.
It was also at this time that my depression was finally diagnosed. A psychiatrist I was seeing told me she thought I was depressed. At first I thought she was nuts, but she finally talked me into going on medication. It made a huge difference. Though I was more in control of my moods and ability to cope at this point in my life, the medications got me to a point where I didn’t always have to worry about coping. It’s been almost 15 years and I’m still on medication, albeit a different one, and incredibly grateful for it.
Obviously recovery involves a lot more than just taking meds. I’ve had years of therapy; I exercise regularly, eat a healthy diet, and, among other things, enjoy my career, family, and friends.
During my stint at the Crisis Centre, I completed a counselor training program and began working as a therapist in private practice in 1991. I still see clients today, although I’ve had to cut back due to my busy schedule. My entire practice has always been on sliding scale. There’s a tremendous need for counseling out there, and the sad thing is that many people can’t afford it. I think that’s just wrong. So over the years, I’ve made all sorts of deals with people so they could see me.
I also discovered stand-up comedy at this point in my life. Eventually I was asked to teach a stand-up comedy course at one of the local community colleges, and that’s what gave me the idea for Stand Up For Mental Health (SMH), my course teaching comedy to people with mental health conditions as a way of building confidence and fighting public stigma. I’d see students overcome long-standing depressions and phobias, not to mention increasing their confidence and self-esteem. There’s something incredibly healing about telling a roomful of people exactly who you are and having them laugh and cheer. I thought it would be a great idea to teach comedy to people who wanted the therapeutic benefits.
So in 2004, with no funding from anyone, I began SMH. Originally, there was only one group in Vancouver, but now I run the program in cities across North America in partnership with organizations like DBSA and NAMI. I give the classes via Skype and then fly in at the end to do shows with the comics. I’ve trained and performed with a group of comics at every DBSA conference since 2008. Hope to see you at the next one!
SMH was also featured in the VOICE Award-winning documentary Cracking Up, and we’ve been featured in media throughout the world, including a piece done for the Australian show Dateline, which sent internationally acclaimed video journalist David Brill to do a piece on SMH. It's an awesome piece and really does a lot to destigmatize mental illness.
Please check out the Stand Up for Mental Health site. There are lots of videos of our comics to inspire you and give you a good laugh!
Joanne Shortell
In 2002, I was on the way to marriage with the love of my life. I was a workaholic technologist with a comfortable income. Anxiety disorders and a misdiagnosed mood disorder had troubled me since childhood. Ten years later, I'm divorced; my mood disorder is more severe (ultra-rapid cycling, drug-resistant bipolar); my anxiety is worse; I'm going through menopause; I've been unable to work for years; my only income is a social security check 85% less than my last paycheck; and—my life is so good my friends and family are jealous.
Since December 2011, I've worked, lived, and traveled the U.S. in a 100 sq. ft. eco-campervan converted to my specifications with solar electricity and a dry composting toilet. The van conversion is designed to be economical, have low environmental impact, and to be a safe, healthy environment for me. It reduces my chemical exposure, provides an environment with no incandescent or florescent lighting, and is a secure, cozy refuge for me, my cat, and my psychiatric service dog. Unlike traditional RVs, it has no propane tank, no open flames, no blackwater tank, and no leveling system. This makes it easier and safer for me to handle when I'm not at my best.
I camp on federal lands, including stunning national parks, much of the year for $10 a night. I have no utility bills, no rent, no mortgage, and no storage fees. My income is spent on high quality, healthy groceries, insurance, and fuel. I love outdoors activities and am proud to be living a greener life with extremely low water use and energy conservation. I have solid relationships with my parents, children, and grandchildren. My mental health is improved; my weight and physical health are excellent.
This low-cost eco-recovery allows me to pay for my mission, the Service Poodle Outdoors/Outreach Tour. I became inspired to do this during my training by Advocacy Unlimited in 2010. My psychiatric service dog, Maeve, and I get the word out about federal civil rights laws that give people with psychiatric disabilities in all 50 states the right to have trained service dogs accompany them wherever the public is allowed, as well as the right to have untrained pets (emotional support animals) in no-pets housing without deposits or fees. I talk to groups and individuals. I have a website; blog; Facebook page; Google+ page; and am active on Quora and in a number of Linked In's groups on the topics of disability, Americans with Disabilities Act, and psychology. Maeve and I recently traveled from Connecticut to Portland, Oregon to present our workshop, Mental Health is Going to the Dogs (and Cats), at Alternatives 2012 and I'm beginning a project to write and speak about my recovery and lifestyle. Call me or send a message.
Ellen Frudakis
I was twenty when I found myself in a mental institution being handed a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. In that moment, I felt like a shattered version of the person I had once known myself to be. The old me had value, I thought, and was someone whom I, myself, had liked. How had I gotten there?
In the two years prior to this I had tried, unsuccessfully, to attend several colleges. Racing thoughts mixed with grandiosity were followed by the devastating inability to put a coherent string of words together on paper. Both sides of this roller coaster interrupted my attempts to manage my assignments and the stress that came with them.
I had to move back in with my parents because I could no longer take care of myself. Eventually, I became more stable. But being stable wasn’t enough to feel like my life mattered. Instead, my existence felt empty. All I saw in myself were my limitations. I couldn’t finish school and a trail of dead-end jobs had left me empty handed. It seemed that every direction I looked, there was nothing for me.
Things started to change when I met Tammy, a disabilities student service councilor at the next community college I attempted. I had returned this time to take one class for the simple purpose of something to do. I didn’t dare let myself think I was going back for real. But Tammy validated my feelings of frustration at not being able to continue my education because of my symptoms.
The first day we met she asked me a magic question: “What kind of supports do you have in your life?” I looked back at her blankly. Tammy added, “Did you know this whole office is designed especially to help people with disabilities overcome their challenges in school?” She also knew people that could help me get a job and organizations that could help me learn more about my illness and re-build my self-esteem.
This began a long series of introductions to people and organizations that had been there all along, just waiting to help me.
Flash forward ten years: I now hold a BA in Human Services and recently completed a graduate program in nonprofit leadership and management at the University of San Diego. I have become an active advocate for young adults, co-founding Impact Young Adults, a peer-run nonprofit offering social events and leadership development. A few years ago, I joined the Board of Directors of International Bipolar Foundation. My latest endeavor, ImpactMORE, partners with young adults who want more from their mental health discovery process. We support projects identified by participants that will make a meaningful difference in their community. Through this, young adults see that their contribution, and their life, matters.
All of this began when one person saw something in me that I couldn’t see myself—someone who could recover. It was not an easy road that led me to these accomplishments, and it was not due simply to luck, except for my chance meeting with Tammy. The reason I have been successful and continue to grow and accomplish the goals I set for myself is because I have taken advantage of the help that was available to me and I have hung in there. I would not have completed my undergraduate degree if I hadn’t listened to the advice of those I had grown to trust or utilized the support available to me. And I most certainly wouldn’t have completed my graduate degree if I had stopped every time I failed (which, believe me, I have!).
Genevieve Green
I walk into class, my shield a thick blue binder filled with my countless ideas and thoughts—my nature in disorganized paper form. Inside hide the pictures of relief—Cobain, Poe, Whitman, Twain. Others. Success stories. Reminders of what is possible inside my world. Our world.
The bipolar world.
I sit, my own little planet, and watch the passionate pleas and anecdotes—“Ban the ‘R Word,’” “Words Hurt,” “If You Only Knew Me”—on the student television show. I recognize their causes and struggles with a mixture of great respect and weary indifference. I’ve heard it all before; I’ve seen the beauty of social progression towards acceptance.
But there’s something missing.
Enter May: Mental Health Awareness Month. My mind has become increasingly preoccupied with the serious lack of education and consideration in the public school system for mental health awareness.
One could say that I have experienced the full and direct effect of such prevalent ignorance amongst today’s youth.
I received the diagnosis of bipolar II at the young age of thirteen. For nearly four years I catapulted through the air, soaring up and up and up only to plummet down to Earth, back to avoiding friends and feeling listless and empty. Bipolar disorder has been described as “the worst hell imaginable,” and I could not agree more.
That is why I take offense to the erroneous vision of mental illness. The stigmatized, generalized, and absolutely searing use of “bipolar” in everyday speech. Especially when the label is met with such horror and protest, such disgust at the very thought of being “crazy,” a daily experience I find to be incredibly upsetting and painful. I know that I am not alone in this.
Society has painted such a “comprehensive” portrait of this disorder; people can hardly tear their eyes from it. They refuse to listen or attempt to modify their reinforced views.
Some things need to change. By 2020, I want people to catch themselves when a bipolar label starts to slip off their tongues, and I want the label to be recognized as the derogatory and hateful term that it is. I want society to recognize the physical nature of the disorder; to capitalize on the strengths of an individual with bipolar disorder instead of seeing the disorder as a weakness or a horrific flaw.
In order to do so, the public school system needs to implement awareness programs in their curriculum for young students. Reinforcement of a concept can have positive repercussions—we learn the social inappropriateness of the “n-word” and the archaic term “retarded” at a young age. Why not “bipolar”? Though progress of consciousness is slow moving, if we start now, we are that much closer to ending the stigma. I no longer want to feel ashamed and afraid of my identity, and I want the silent community of people like me to shed their fear and embrace their identity for our world to see.
This essay won First Place in the 2012 International Bipolar Foundation’s high school essay competition.
Linea Johnson
I was first officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of nineteen after falling into a suicidal depression. I thought that I was the only one in the world experiencing what I was going through. When I was finally hospitalized I saw that other people were dealing with similar things, but they were all much older than me and had very different life circumstances. It was difficult for me to connect with my fellow patients.
After I left the hospital I struggled with extreme bipolar episodes and in turn felt more and more alone. Feeling like I had no one to talk to or who could understand what I was going through, I wrote. I wrote in journals every day, trying to come to terms with my illness, trying to understand what was happening to me, and trying to find a way to release all of my thoughts.
Eventually, after writing for many years, my mom and I decided to combine our writing and create a book that shares our story of a mother and daughter struggling through a diagnosis of a mental health condition.
Today, our book, Perfect Chaos (St. Martin’s Press), has been published and we are sharing our story with a wider audience. Finally, by voicing my story, I realized that I was not alone and that mental health conditions are universal. Being open about my journey showed me that I could help others who also felt alone with their illness. It was not only a relief, but it was also empowering.
Writing remains a stabilizing support in my life. Through sharing my story with honesty, I have learned that I am not alone and I have found allies in my journey. I also found that I receive better support from my medical providers. Through organizations like DBSA, we can begin to share our stories and let others know that they are not alone, but rather a member of a strong and supportive community.
Kristen Famiano
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2003 at the age 29 after friends and coworkers intervened, confronted my mood instability, and took me to the hospital. While I had pockets of depressive episodes and periods of productivity, I had never felt so helpless as I did then. I had worked hard to maintain stability by staying busy through multiple jobs, graduate school classes, and an excessive exercise routine. After a while, I couldn't mentally maintain this schedule and I crashed. I knew I was always a sensitive person who felt things deeply, but I had no idea with what I was dealing, nor how long it would take me to get my life back on track.
At first, I fought treatment options, fearful that they would break down the defenses I had built and afraid of potential side effects from the medication. Once I accepted the help, I felt lost, trying to find my way through the mental health system. Often, I was fighting myself as much as I was fighting this system. I even had a therapist fire me after a couple of years for lack of progress. It was during this time that I had multiple hospitalizations, because I felt more comfortable in the hospital than I did in my own skin. At times, I was self-destructive and abused one of the medications prescribed to me. Once I found an effective medication regimen, became involved with DBSA Metro Detroit, and accepted my diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I finally began moving forward in my recovery.
My journey started with my friends, family, and coworkers, and these people still play an important role in my treatment plan. I have now added my therapist, psychiatrist, medications, and DBSA to the mix. Currently, I am the president of DBSA Metro Detroit and run one of our 11 support groups. Being involved with the other board and group members helps to give my life meaning and purpose. In addition, I also go to therapy once a week with a therapist who fully supports all parts of me unconditionally through the Internal Family Systems model. Finally, I have a psychiatrist who is knowledgeable in explaining and tweaking medications and gives me a voice in my treatment plan. While my diagnosis does not define me, it is a part of who I am. Once I accepted it, I allowed myself to get on the road to recovery, and I'm finally living again.
Walter Hudson
The elite United States Army Airborne Rangers' motto "Rangers Lead The Way!" originated when the US Army Rangers were tasked in the June 6, 1944 Normandy Invasion to arrive on the beaches under a swirling maelstrom of withering German machinegun and artillery fire, to climb straight up a cliff and destroy enemy gun emplacements that threatened to annihilate US troops.
I became a Ranger in 1977 after completing the grueling United States Army Ranger School Course. This training was 58 days straight with two eight hour breaks, and, up to that point in my life, losing 25 pounds of body weight was the most arduous task completed. Several months before beginning Ranger School, I witnessed the shooting death of a friend and fellow Infantry Officer Second Lieutenant on an aerial target engagement range. Unknown to me or anyone else—because Post Trauma Stress Disorder was not yet recognized as a diagnosis—I developed a raging case of PTSD, complete with black dog depths of depression, anxiety, survivor guilt, and a deep sadness I feel even to this day thirty five years later.
I saw my friend lying,
Brainshot dying
And standing nearby I shall always ask why not I?
–Walter Hudson
After serving three years with the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault), I left the army to become a roustabout. I wrenched pipes together to build oil wellheads and tank batteries, dug ditches for pipelines, and did whatever was necessary to construct what you might recognize as oil wells. I eventually owned several small independent oil and natural gas exploration and production companies, until one day, someone made a mistake at one of my newly fracked wells and I was struck by a high velocity pipe in the ensuing explosive release of natural gas. Lying unconscious in a cloud of gas, my brain recorded what would become more PTSD stressors, and in the recovery from the physical injuries, I found that I could no longer bear to fill up my diesel car, assist my father on his farm because of the exhaust fumes of the tractor, and I morbidly feared going near my wells. Then tragedy struck again when in a month and a day, I survived two mild traumatic brain injuries that robbed me of the ability to read polysyllable words and understand body language and changed my personality enough that it interfered with many of my relationships. The black dog of depression attacked with ferocity, as subsequently I was forced to abandon graduate school and was later fired from my job as an emergency medical technician. Then on March 9, 1999, I survived the rollover of a pickup truck in which I was a passenger. I required surgery on my right shoulder and had a third TBI. Within seven months, I was diagnosed with narcolepsy and hospitalized for mania, where I was told I had bipolar disorder.
Since then, I founded Advocates For Mental Health, The Depression and BiPolar Support Alliance of Wayne and Holmes Counties (Ohio), and became the second Ohioan trained as a Facilitator of Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP). Becoming a Master WRAP Facilitator, I conducted the first WRAP Facilitator Training in Ohio in 2003. Subsequently I assisted Mary Ellen Copeland, Ph.D., and Ed Anthes in writing WRAP For Veterans and People In the Military, and assisted Jane Winterling in writing Steps To Wellness: A Manual For Building Community Supports. I became a Certified Peer Specialist after being trained by Larry Fricks in Georgia in 2004, and I returned to Ohio to advocate for Ohio adopting certified peer support as a Medicaid billable service. Later I served as the Senior Project Manager of The Ohio WRAP Study, the randomized trial of WRAP that resulted in WRAP being recognized as an evidence based practice last year by SAMHSA.
Personally, the years of black depression, mania, and alcoholism have given way before vigilant perseverance in self-directed recovery using Dr. Copeland's WRAP and Dr. Seligman's Positive Psychology. And, since 2009, with the help of a VA psychiatrist, I am free of enslavement to alcohol, nicotine, and no longer use any psychiatric medicines or any kind of therapy. I have lost 80 pounds in weight, resumed teaching Hakko Ryu Ju Jutsu, taken up yoga, and am in the best physical and mental shape I have been in the last 20 years. Rangers Lead The Way!
Celeste Trotz
Acceptance. The acceptance of having the bipolar disorder was not something I knew very well. I had heard about acceptance during the years following my learning that the bipolar disorder doesn't just go away. Learning that something I was diagnosed with 20 years before never left me and that for 20 years alcohol had become my friend to manage the impacts from it. In my mind I now was "less than."
Shame, on the other hand, I knew very well. That shame being something that consumed me nearly 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, taking time out only while I slept. Deep within my heart, I believed I was "less than." I no longer deserved respect for anything I would do from this point on in my life. I had a major character defect.
This belief was reinforced by the confusion and frustration my family felt as a result of mom having a mental illness. The fuel for the fire: a lack of education.
I then stumbled upon a few things that changed my life forever. DBSA and the simultaneous participation in an interactive internet study both focused on the recovery approach to achieving wellness.
Between my participation in face-to-face DBSA meetings, using the DBSA website recovery tools offered, such as Facing Us https://www.facingus.org/, the participation in the study, and learning that recovery is possible, "acceptance" is now better understood. Respect for myself and the goals in my life are reappearing, the hope returning. I can only touch the tip of the iceberg when trying to describe and explain how this feels. How understanding the "acceptance" of having a mental illness has given me my life back.
Chris Jasikoff
My name is Chris Jasikoff and I am being treated for major depression and social anxiety. My story begins way back in my childhood, when I thought I had to put on a "happy face" instead of expressing how I really felt. I was never really treated for my illness until I moved up to Massachusetts approximately 25 years ago and found an outstanding psychiatrist. Despite now being in Saratoga, NY, a 4-hour distance from where I was living before, my doctor still takes care of me.
My first hospitalization was a nightmare. I remember hitting the walls in the hospital and threatening to beat the windshield of a car—I was mad! After many years of enjoyment, I found work to become much more difficult. Anyway, my voice was taken away many years ago, leaving an empty, unhappy, depressed shell instead of the happy adult that I had pretended to be. On the outside I was happy and I was never able to express my true emotions. Thank goodness for my doctor, who worked diligently with me. Now I can speak openly about most things, but there are times when I sink into that shell and I still have trouble letting people in. I am working every day to fix this. Medication and psychotherapy really made a difference.
I am one of the founders of the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) of Saratoga County, NY. We run three support groups, two of which are located in Clifton Park and one located in Saratoga Springs. Three years ago, the Clifton Park support group was started after a recent hospital stay. Two friends and I were talking one day at the hospital and we found that there weren't any support groups for people suffering from a mental health illness. So that night, I searched endlessly on the internet and the only thing that was remotely close to a support group was this organization called DBSA in Chicago, IL. After researching their website, it was very evident to me that I could start a chapter in a city of my own choice. I can remember that I was all excited about running a group, so I told the other lady who was interested about this idea. After speaking with her, we decided to base our support group in Clifton Park since it was mid-point between where our hometowns were located.
Soon after starting the Clifton Park group, I decided to get some additional training as a Certified Peer Specialist. And in February of 2009, I went down to St. Louis, Missouri, for a full week of Peer Specialist training. It was a very draining and yet a very exciting week. My skills as a peer support group facilitator and, later, as a peer counselor at a local hospital, had definitely improved! Not only did we start the Saratoga Springs support group, which was always my initial goal, but we then had an Annual Mental Health Awareness Walk held on March 21, 2011, which proved to be very successful. Through the walk, we promoted advocacy in our area! From the time I became engaged with DBSA, they have managed to keep me alive and well during these past few years! DBSA has definitely played an integral part in all of our support group activities. When help was needed, someone was always there with the answers or the know-how! Hats off to DBSA!
Dana Parker-Mathis, PhDc, MA, MHFA Instructor, DBSA Peer Certification
For over twenty years, I have struggled with symptoms of mental illness. When I was only twelve, my father passed away from a brain aneurysm in front of me. I was so devastated by the loss, I felt myself slipping into a place I didn't quite understand, but at my young age I didn't know how to share my feelings with someone so they could throw me a life-line. Life continued throughout high school.
Fortunately, I was admitted into the Intensive Educational Development Program at the University of Maryland and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Behavioral and Social Sciences in 1990. In 1994, I married, and on December 15, 1995, I gave birth to my number one fan and best friend, my now fifteen year old son, Zachary. I endured postpartum depression for several months, at which time I felt extremely overwhelmed.
My symptoms intensified and I began having thoughts. I was created for a special purpose. I was convinced my home and car were bugged. I believed the government spies were trying to take my son away from me. I spent hours driving on expressways and interstates chasing trucks and buses, reading them for clues and signs about what I was to do next. Colors symbolized both people and things, so every time I glanced at something green, it was telling me to grow-up, purple represented my mother, and yellow, my sister. Every color and every sight I saw meant something to me. My symptoms included severe mood swings, hallucinations, and paranoid delusions. It was both exhilarating and exhausting.
I returned to my home state of Michigan with the hope of benefiting from participation in a mental health research study called STEP, Services for the Treatment of Early Psychosis, at Wayne State University. Participating in this research study offered me hope while I endured the symptoms of Schizophrenia. The staff of the STEP Program worked diligently to create a well-rounded, all-inclusive treatment program for persons experiencing psychotic symptoms. The STEP program offered a three piece program: psycho-education, social skills, and medication management. This opportunity was the single most contributing factor to my recovery. I am a fervent believer that mental health research was what led me to a stable and fulfilling life. Research was key to correct diagnosis and finally finding a treatment program that worked for me.
I have been in recovery since 2005 and am living a fulfilling life. In May 2007, I completed my Masters of Social Justice Program and, as part of my required internship, I developed and implemented an educational support model program through my non-profit organization, Dig My Roots Foundation. Working with Wayne State University Psychiatric Centers, Detroit Central City, and Lincoln Behavioral Services, I have assisted many of my peers in gaining entry into higher educational institutions, trade schools, and GED completion programs throughout the metropolitan Detroit area.
I married a wonderfully understanding man in April 2007 and my son is performing exceptionally well academically and socially. I am currently employed full-time with Gateway Community Health Agency as a Prevention, Education, and Outreach Specialist, and I am also a Doctoral Candidate in Human Services with a specialization in Social Policy Analysis and Planning. Mental health research has had a positive impact on my life and I encourage every peer to seek out research opportunities and get involved.
To learn more about mental health research and research opportunities available, visit www.WeSearchTogether.org, a partnership between DBSA and the University of Michigan Depression Center that brings researchers and mental health consumers together as partners to advance research.
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