It's fitting, then, that the author of one blockbuster book about bipolar disorder should interview the author of the newest. We thank Andy Behrman for sending us this interview.
Terri Cheney -- Interview with Andy Behrman
Behrman: In Manic, you mention how your illness affected your relationship with food. Can you tell us a bit about that, and how that relationship is now?Cheney: I've always had a troubled relationship with food. When I'm manic, I don't eat anything for days. But when I'm depressed, the hunger becomes insatiable. I eat and eat without stopping, anything I can get my hands on -- even strange things like iced coffee packets or baking soda. For some reason, I'm able to control my eating in public. But most of my depressions are spent in bed, alone. Food seems like the only sure escape from the pain.
I've worked hard on this in therapy, and have had periods of normalcy. But the situation became further complicated by the fact that shortly after I wrote Manic, I had to have surgery to remove most of my colon, which wasn't working properly. Now I have to eat very small amounts at a time. So my goal -- to eat like a "normal" person, to regard food as a simple pleasure, not a respite from pain -- is more important than ever.
Behrman: What are your feelings about having had electroconvulsive treatment? How many treatments did you end up having?
Cheney: At the time I decided to have electroconvulsive treatment (ECT), I truly felt there were no other options available to me. My depression was savage and unrelenting, and didn't respond to any of the medications available at that time, either in the U.S. or Europe. I'm sure if I had elected to do nothing, I would be dead today.
That said, I have very mixed feelings about my ECT. On the one hand, I think it did eventually help my depression. On the other hand, it profoundly damaged my memory. Not just my ability to recall past events, but my short-term recollection, as well. I used to have a photographic memory: I could read a passage in a book and recite it verbatim. I'm lucky now if I can remember what I wrote at the beginning of this paragraph (a slight exaggeration, but only slight).
I've met many people since, however, who have had a good experience with this procedure. There have been several developments since my treatment in 1994. I believe I had 12 sessions of bilateral ECT (meaning the electrodes were placed on both sides of my brain). From what I've read and heard from others, the newer unilateral technique, where electrodes are only placed on the right side, has far fewer side effects and nowhere near the same impact on memory. If someone told me they had a suicidal depression that refused to respond to other therapies, I would tell them to consider ECT.
Behrman: You write "I'm still ashamed of having a mental illness." Do you still feel this way?
Cheney: The shame is like a nagging toothache: it comes and goes, sometimes worse, sometimes better. I'm more ashamed of being different than I am of being bipolar. But there's no question that the shame has diminished for me since I began telling my story -- not just in Manic, but in the support group that I co-founded at UCLA. Once I dared to share my unbearable secrets with others, the power of those secrets dissipated.
So if shame is like a toothache, I guess writing is my Novocain. I'm constantly astonished by how the simple act of writing down my thoughts and feelings transforms them. They are no longer my enemies. They are my material, to do with as I will. I own them, they no longer own me.
Behrman: Toward the end of the book, you describe a Hollywood party where you decided to come clean about your illness, and the response was somewhat unexpected. Can you tell us about the response, and how it made you feel?
Cheney: I dreaded that party. For years, since my father's death in 1997, I had gradually drifted away from the Hollywood scene, into increasing isolation and depression. I didn't want to be around people because I was no longer working as an entertainment lawyer anymore, and I didn't know what I would possibly say when someone asked me the inevitable, "What do you do?"
But I forced myself to go that night. When someone finally did ask me that terrible question, it was like something took hold of my tongue and answered, "I'm bipolar." And to my astonishment, the response was overwhelmingly positive. We went into the "six-degrees-of-separation" dance, where one person said they had a bipolar relative, another mentioned great bipolar artists of the past, another said he thought he might be bipolar, too, etc. Everybody seemed to have some connection to the disease, and no one thought less of me for having it. In fact, for a short glorious time, I became the most sought-after person in the room, as everyone was curious and wanted more information.
Ever since then, I've volunteered that I'm bipolar whenever the occasion is appropriate. I always hold my breath for a moment, but I'm rarely disappointed. The listener inevitably responds with interest and compassion and admiration for my honesty. It's convinced me that disclosure is a powerful force for recovery, which too few people are taking advantage of.
Next: Terri Cheney on hospitalization, drinking, and how Manic came to be. She also has words of warning and encouragement for people who are struggling with bipolar disorder.
