Yesterday I came to a realization that was initially hard to accept: I may never return to teaching full-time. I have degrees in Social Studies, German, and Secondary Education. I have a Master’s degree in Education of the Exceptional Child, specializing in Behavioral and Emotional Disorders. For ten years, I was able to hold it together enough to work with children ranging in ages from three to twenty-one. Then something happened.
Despite my best efforts, despite the help my wife gave me, my mental illness took over my life. I have been without a job for 6 ½ years. After 18 months of separation from my wife and developmentally disabled son, a time period that saw me IN the hospital more than OUT of it, a time of lost dreams, shattered goals, a time spent wandering, squandering, I feel as if I am finally gaining a toehold on reality. I applied for a job as a custodian through Goodwill Industries, an organization devoted to helping people with disabilities find gainful employment. The interviews went well, and soon I will be cleaning toilets with the same zeal and enthusiasm I once brought to the classroom. Why? It is because I see it as a stepping-stone to a normal life, after many years of being unemployed, and spending some quality time in mental institutions.
The last hospitalization I had was definitely the best one I have had in a long time. I had the best doctor the facility had to offer; the psych-techs were, although tough at times, very good, and more importantly, the mix of patients was what I needed to survive a difficult time period in my life. I made some lasting friendships, with people whose diagnoses I despised prior to this admission, with people whose behaviors even I considered bizarre, with people whose stories were so dissimilar to mine, I first thought I couldn’t relate to them. I was able to open up in groups, something I hate, and instead of being rejected, my story was embraced.
Know this, I think group therapy is for pussies. When manic, I usually turn it into my own personal show, using the captive audience as practice for my stand-up comedy routines. This time, however, I was able to listen and relate to others. They accepted what I had to offer and it was evident that they shared similar experiences. Make no mistake, I often wrested control of the group from the psychologist, but this time I was able to draw upon my experience as a teacher and facilitate the discussion into something productive. I was able to draw others into the conversation, others who had not planned on sharing, make some sense of continuity, tie it up into a neat package with a bow on top. After the last group therapy session I participated in, other patients came up to me and described how much more meaningful this particular session was, that it was the best group therapy session so far.
That is what I do. I have a dominant personality, and can gauge the sensibilities of whatever room I am in, and take it over, for better or for worse. I am a social empath, an emotional sponge, and often, to my own detriment, feed on the pain and anger of others. I am a sensitive artist; that is what I do. Unless I have an outlet to get rid of this pain, through my painting and writing, I can become sicker. That is what started happening near the end of my last stay. The ward was getting over-crowded, and I was getting daily panic attacks because of my social anxieties. Hallways where we were constantly bumping into one another, long lines for the doctor and medications, groups where we had to tote stacks of chairs into the room so that everyone could fit, all contributed to my tension. I had a nice run at the hospital; it was time to leave.
I was not well yet. My wife could tell you that. She would not allow me a visit with my son unless it was supervised. I scheduled an emergency meeting with my psychiatrist and he recommended bumping up my medications, from the minimum dosage to the maximum. My wife still felt uncomfortable with letting me visit my son alone. That weekend, I ended up talking down from suicide a friend I had made in the hospital. With the help of his wife, he made it back into a hospital. I drove the three hours to visit with him his second day back in the “joint.”
I couldn’t go back to the hospital, as my wife and one of my best friends suggested. I had things to take care of, responsibilities and obligations, stuff I could not do chained up somewhere. I took refuge in my apartment, cutting myself off from the rest of the world like I normally do, communicating through the internet and telephone. I figured if I took my medications as prescribed, stuck to my sleep schedule, tried to eat well and toughed it out, I would be better served. I was right this time.
I am not totally well. I know that. I am trying hard, and that is what matters. My stamina is not very high. Sometimes all I can handle is one or two meetings a day before I become emotionally drained, exhausted. I am learning to recognize my limitations. My work as a janitor is scheduled to be 15-20 hours a week. One of my father’s favorite expressions, “How do you eat an elephant---a bite at a time!” is becoming real to me. As a person with Bipolar Disorder, I have to be ever-vigilant about my mental health. I need to learn my limitations. I have to set boundaries, even if that disappoints some people. Nothing is more important to me than staying well.
Here are the simple keys to staying well: staying on the proper mix of medications and taking them as prescribed, keeping a proper sleep schedule, eating healthy, getting some exercise and relying upon your support system. Nothing else matters. A student doctor said something to me the last time I was in the hospital for electroshock therapy, something I resented at the time: “The medications can only do so much; the ECT can only do so much. A lot of it must come from you.” You see, there is no magic bullet, no simple cure for this illness. This is something I must deal with for the rest of my life; I will always experience highs and lows. But, as my wife says, I can control how I contribute to those manias and depressions. It is my choice whether or not I put on that pot of coffee and stay up all night long, smoking cigarettes, painting and writing. This is usually a “push,” something that forces my body into at least a hypo-mania. Don’t let anyone tell you different, sleep deprivation is a drug, and for a junky like me, that is dangerous.
I was called into the office of Wendy Stewart, Executive Director of Cambria County’s chapter of NAMI, the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill. She said she had an opportunity for me. She said that she was willing to pay to send me to a facilitator’s training, to learn how to run a support group for individuals with Bipolar Disorder. Drawing upon my strengths as a natural-born teacher and as someone with a great deal of experience with the mental health system, she thinks I would be perfect for this kind of position. I agree.
I read a book once that had a phrase that changed my life and gave it meaning. It talked about “being of use.” That has become my life’s mission, to be of use, somehow. I used to think it was being a teacher. I come from a teaching family. Several of my relatives are teachers, in one way or another. I now think my mission is different. Because of my illness, I cannot subject myself to a lot of stress. Perhaps I have a different calling, I realized. Perhaps that mission involves telling others my story, sharing my experiences and using the vast knowledge of the mental health system I have gained the hard way to give others hope.
Hope is a central theme in my artwork. If nothing else, I have optimism and hope that I can one day have as normal life as possible. It may be different than the reality I had planned. My dreams must be adapted, changed. But that is okay. Rarely does anything turn out as we planned. There is even an adage, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!” I can accept the fact that I may never have a classroom to call my own, in the traditional sense. Most of what I have learned has been outside of school, on my own, in the “real” world. If I can help others with the knowledge I have gained about surviving the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, I will consider myself, “being of use.”
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