We hear so much about the depressing side of mental illness: the high rates of suicide, homelessness, substance abuse, criminal behaviour and unemployment. Where are the stories about those of us with a mental illness who are happy, enjoy family life, friends, work and are engaged with our local communities?
This is my 45th year of living with a mental illness. While my life hasn’t been smooth sailing, my story is testimony to the fact that, with the right support, we can live fulfilling lives.
My journey with a mental illness began in 1979 when I was a 1st-year university student. I was taken to the psychiatric unit at The Alfred Hospital in a state of psychotic mania. It was upon my discharge from the hospital that the weight of public judgment descended. I felt so ashamed of my illness. I dropped out of university and spent hours in my bedroom.
This was a time when mental illness was shrouded in shame and secrecy. However, I was fortunate to have a mum who treated manic depression (as bipolar disorder was then called) just like any other illness. I was the only patient in the psychiatric ward to have ‘Get Well Soon’ card on my bedside locker.
After a month or so of me hiding away, and unbeknown to anyone, Mum completed an application for me to study nursing — even signing the forms on my behalf. Committing forgery is not the behaviour one would expect from the daughter of a judge but it demonstrated Mum’s determination to support my recovery in any way possible.
During my nursing training, my psychiatrist took me off lithium. Within three weeks, I was in a psychotic catatonic depression. I don’t recall my time in hospital but my family and friends do. I started saying: “I don’t suffer from manic depression, my friends suffer from my manic depression.”
After this psychotic episode, my psychiatrist kept me on lithium. During the next decade, I completed a critical care nursing course and an arts degree with honours at the University of Melbourne. I was in a stable relationship with a man who remains the love of my life.
And then the wheels again fell off.
My psychiatrist had told me I should never have children. However, my partner and I decided we wanted children, so I raised the issue with my psychiatrist. He told me I had “grown-up” and no longer needed to take lithium — a medication that was not advised during pregnancy. The mistake my psychiatrist made was not requesting to see me in six weeks’ time. He would undoubtedly have noticed I was hypomanic when not taking lithium.
Being with a hypomanic person is exhausting. For three years, I was never still. The illness gave me the energy to clean the house, weed the garden and split the atom, all before breakfast.
My partner couldn’t cope with my behaviour (who could?) and has never spoken to me again.
Soon after, a colleague told me she was feeling suicidal. I was determined to stop her – I constantly phoned her and left more than 70 messages on her answering machine. I also didn’t sleep for three days, resulting in me transitioning from hypomania to psychotic mania.
I then spent three weeks as a sectioned patient in Larundel. Those experiences are etched in my memory forever: the heavily medicated patients lying around, some on couches, some on the floor, while the nursing staff sat in the office observing through a window. A few of us paced up and down a corridor, 44 paces in each direction. There was nothing else to do. Once while taking a shower, a psychotic male patient tried to rape me.
A year or so later, I became the first person with a mental illness to use the Disability Discrimination Act against the University of Melbourne. My formal complaint of unlawful discrimination was immediately expedited by the Commission, reflecting its serious nature.
Following mediation at the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, I received a public apology for my academic supervisor’s appalling conduct, financial compensation, and an undertaking that the university would educate staff about mental illness and develop policies to support students.
After this experience in 1995, I was determined never to be sick again. I learnt how to stay well. I learnt to manage my illness just as a person with diabetes learns to manage sugar levels.
Although my stay-well plan includes medication, equally important are my work, my friends, the local community, laughter, dog walking, sunshine, tennis, sailing, dancing and sleep. I do not take these everyday things for granted — they have made an enormous difference to my ability to live well with bipolar disorder.
I also needed to accept that my mental illness is not a character flaw, a personality trait or a personal weakness. It is an illness that can affect anyone, regardless of age, race, social class or sporting ability.
My stay well plan is modified as I age. Two things, however, have not changed. The first is taking medication (a mood stabliser). The second is the importance of my stay well committee – friends who warn me of changes in my behaviour that indicate an episode may be coming on. This insight from outside is a vital safety net.
However, I can never let down my guard. I have to remain ever vigilant.
Recently, I had some difficult encounters with colleagues which led to me receiving some nasty texts and emails. Most people would become upset, and many would sleep poorly. I, however, craved a glass of milk, which is one of my ‘early’ warning signs.
I cancelled work, turned off my computer and spent the weekend reading novels. Reading makes me focus – and slows down my racing thoughts.
Stories like mine provide proof that people with mental illness disorder can lead fulfilling, happy and productive lives, as long as we have the right support. Let’s hear more about the good stories.
Dr Sarah Russell published A lifelong journey: Staying well with manic depression/bipolar disorder twenty years ago. You can get in touch with Women’s Agenda if you’re interested in receiving a copy. Sarah is on X @AgedMatters
If you or someone you know needs help, you can contact beyondblue on 1300 224 636, or Lifeline on 13 11 14. In an emergency, call 000.