Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of reading The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick. The highly acclaimed screen play adaptation had been in theaters since November, and I wanted to read the novel before it was released on DVD. Those who know me know I have an aversion to movie theaters, and I prefer to watch films in the comfort of my own living room, without the popping, snapping, cracking, sniffling, sneezing, chewing, talking, texting - and otherwise irritating - crowds at the local Cinema. Call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). I call it Preserving My Sanity(PMS).
In this particular instance, I was so consumed by the novel that I couldn't wait to see it on screen. On a Sunday afternoon, I cast my idiosyncrasies aside, ducked into a quiet corner by the wall, and was thoroughly entertained by the extraordinary cast performances. The story was effectively transformed into a screen play that brought an element of light and humor to what is otherwise a rather disturbing tale of mental illness, heartache and familial dysfunction. True to its title, even the novel has a silver lining, but I found myself wishing the film hadn't shielded us from some of the deeper themes in the book. The sentiment I had become so intimately attached to wasn't altogether missing, but the depth of that sentiment was buoyed by opportune plot changes and omissions, superb acting, and a vibrant comedic vein that was coaxed to the surface on screen, while only delicately tapped by the novelist himself.Silver Linings was nominated for 8 Academy Awards, with Jennifer Lawrence bringing home Best Actress. The 22 year old Lawrence took the opportunity to acknowledge the gravity of the message behind the film when first she stumbled her way to the stage, and then she tagged the following comments to her acceptance speech:
"I don't think we're going to stop until we get rid of the stigma for mental illness — I know David (Russell) won't. I hope that this helps. It's so bizarre that in this world if you have asthma, you take asthma medicine. If you have diabetes, you take diabetes medicine. But as soon as you have to take medication for your mind, there's such a stigma behind it." 
Mental illness is such a complicated topic, and so rarely broached in public. Afflictions such as Schizophrenia or advanced Bi-Polar Disorder are eerily intimidating to the average person. We can neither understand, nor relate, so we look the other way. And let's face it - people with severe mental illness need professional treatment and observation. There's little you or I could do to advance their development, or improve their condition.
That being said, when taken literally, the term "mental illness" means just that - an illness of the mind. Physical illnesses range from things like the common cold to terminal cancer. And when you equate that to sicknesses of the mind, suddenly your scope gets wider. Mood disorders enter the picture. Anxiety. Depression. Are these mental illnesses? Sure, they are. Are they part of that secular group we refuse to acknowledge as representative of "normal," sane behaviors? Not even close.
Move into the grey area of mood disorders, and things start to get really cloudy. Call it mental illness, and Jennifer's right - watch people hide their eyes and back away. Mental illness has a stigma that won't be denied. And yet, millions of Americans suffer from anxiety and depression, refusing to accept and treat it. Millions spend months, years in denial, and if it weren't for the negative connotation associated with sicknesses of the mind, droves of people would be lining up for help without embarrassment or shame.
If we consider the black cloud that hovers over the landscape of mental illnesses, and we pull the mood disorders out from underneath and into shelter - there's still something that separates an unhealthy mind from an unhealthy body. There's still something that says depression isn't a common cold and anxiety isn't a 24 hour virus. Just what is it?
Well, for starters, we see the body as a vehicle and the mind as a driver. The body is not who we are - the mind is at the core of our being. The mind is embedded within us and creates our personalities, controls our behaviors. When the body gets sick, we treat it. When the mind gets sick, we question it. The body is sick because it's infected or afflicted. The mind is sick because we weren't tough enough to fight it off. There's an element of blame bestowed upon the individual who admits to being anxious or depressed. There's an expectation that a person with a mood disorder should automatically assume responsibility for his or her condition.
It's understandable, isn't it? That we should consider the mind more powerful than the body? That we believe it has more control over what ails it, and more aptitude to do what it takes to heal itself - or to prevent sickness in the first place? I know I'm guilty of feeling this way. Whether talking to a depressed friend or family member, or counseling myself, the same thoughts have crossed my mind: Suck it up, Stop whining, DO something about it. I don't know about you, but I've never looked at a person with Pneumonia and said, "Get over it."
Until recently, I couldn't understand the weight or magnitude of that perspective. I'd never truly believed that depression and anxiety were intruders in the brain, and not just bi-products of our own unique chemistry. I was skeptical of happy people, and I thought the contented just had lower expectations. I attributed my angst to a deeper artistic or emotional IQ - assuming that some of those happy people just didn't have enough depth to understand. I blamed my childhood, my relationships, and my lack of discipline for my overwhelming feelings of guilt and regret - for my inability to take control of the present.
For many years, I struggled to gain traction. For many years, I was up and down, or just plain stuck. But I always believed that ultimately I could do something about it. If only I was stronger, more disciplined, less resentful. If I hadn't made bad choices, or no choices, or missed out on the right choices. I flogged myself daily for things I'd done or said, or things I hadn't done or hadn't said. And when the stress made me physically sick, I finally agreed to take a pill for it. After all, I had a reason. I wasn't crying or whining - I was nauseous and vomiting. What I thought was mental weakness had just gotten physical.
I didn't notice the effects of the medication, except that I was much more even keel. I didn't cry anymore, and I didn't get sick, so I kept taking a low dose for a number of years. Even though I wasn't convinced it was doing anything, I was afraid to stop. If I was anxious, a few drinks would calm me down. No problem. Nothing to see here.And things were OK, for a while. I had a new job, a new house, a dog, a husband. I was doing fine. Aside from the predictable New Year's resolutions to lose weight, exercise more, eat better, drink less - I was virtually self-sustaining. I was even writing in my spare time. For months, I used the status quo as a gauge. As long as things were getting done, bills were being paid, no one was arguing - I was OK. I would sit down at the end of the night, have a few glasses of wine, and go to bed.
As I continued to follow through the motions, I started to feel like I was constantly going against the grain - that I was investing too much in a career I hadn't planned, in a place where I didn't belong. I felt a void so large I wasn't sure it could ever be filled. The stress piled on and the anxiety was building. I couldn't handle my own problems, so tell me yours - and yours - and yours. Anything to give me purpose outside of myself. Anything to avoid dealing with this person I hadn't had the guts to become.
I drank more. I hid behind the protective wall I'd created. I told myself it was my peace, my solace, my coping mechanism. I was under a lot of stress, and I needed to wind down and get out of my head. I weaned myself off of my medication. I hadn't noticed over the years if it'd been helping, and I still believed that I needed to cut the cord and handle my own business. But things continued to get worse.
No matter what people said about the alcohol, no matter who suggested I should get some help, I clung to the only thing I thought provided some relief. I had tried a couple of therapists, and had little faith in their ability to relate to me. I was drained emotionally, and despite my attempts to carry the world on my shoulders, at the end of the day, I felt like there was no one there for me. I was angry, resentful and bitter. I felt judged and bruised by the people who professed to love me the most.
Obviously, I realize that drinking isn't a healthy means of coping, and I know it makes me sluggish and sometimes argumentative. I understand that repetitively numbing out the brain is only a quick fix, only temporarily soothing, and that any comfort I get out of it is short-lived and often misleading. But somehow, the little things became difficult for me to manage, and that drink at the end of the day was a beacon on the horizon. I looked forward to the escape - to a few hours when it didn't matter that my life was slipping through my hands.
And as the difficulties multiplied and the pressures mounted, I started feeling like one more thing would just split me apart at the seams. It took everything I had just to get out of bed and go to work in the morning. And even then, I was barely functioning. I kept telling myself it was going to get better - I just had to try harder - but I couldn't. I was paralyzed. And then it got physical.
I started having panic attacks. I was sick to my stomach, and my mind was racing. I couldn't stop it. I didn't even have the wherewithal to give myself a flogging - to tell myself to suck it up and move on. Grow up. Stop crying. I told my husband that I no longer knew if I was sick because I was stressed, or I was stressed because I was sick.
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I had seen the doctor a few weeks prior, and he'd given me something for anxiety, but it wasn't supposed to be a long term solution. It took the edge off and allowed me to sleep, but when it was gone I was right back on eggshells, worried that I'd be the one to crack. The only thing I knew for sure was that it wasn't only in my head. It was mental. It was physical. It was all-consuming.I confessed to a friend just how fragile I was feeling, and she said something I really needed to hear. "Don't be a hero," she told me. "You're under a lot of strain." "Don't be a hero," she said. And it really hit home. I realized that this was just another one of those instances where I refused to ask for help, where I tried to shoulder all of the burden. I knew I couldn't do it anymore. And I accepted it. I dragged myself to the doctor, and despite my reluctance, I took a leap of faith. At the Doctor's suggestion, I tried a new pill.
Within days, I felt like my brain had shifted - like my consciousness completely changed perspective. For the first time in months, I looked forward to shopping for groceries, cooking dinner, taking the dog for a walk. For the first time in months, I didn't want or need that glass of wine - that security blanket. I could talk to people again. I wanted to talk to people again. And I was overcome with gratitude. I could finally see that silver lining.
And this isn't a commercial for anti-depressants, and I don't think pills are the answer for everyone. There are other methods, and you do what's right for you. But I know I'm not the only one who suffers in silence, afraid to ask for help - or worse yet - afraid that real help doesn't exist. The world I live in hasn't changed. My problems are still here. The stress and the pressure haven't evaporated. But my perspective has changed, and the panic has stopped. For the first time in my life, I believe that depression and anxiety really are sicknesses of the mind. And being mind sick isn't a weakness or a character flaw. It's a chemical imbalance in your brain. And I don't pretend to understand the physiology, but I do know you might need some help to get your balance back. Let's not be heroes here.
Nor do I, my friend. Nor do I.
- L.
