Cheney: The money. And the instant credibility. But mostly the money.
Behrman: You describe several wildly different hospital visits. Which visit do you think had the most profound effect on you, and why?
Cheney: My first visit probably affected me most powerfully. I was very depressed, and needed to be hospitalized, but at the time I still refused to admit that I was mentally ill. So I saw all the rest of the patients as "others" -- strangers, even enemies. I was very afraid of getting too close to insanity. But I ended up bonding with my roommate, a disturbed young woman with severe burns. Recognizing the humanity in her somehow allowed me to recognize it in myself. I felt compassion for her, and for my own suffering, too. When I left that hospital I was able to admit that I was mentally ill.
Behrman: Your doctor who prescribed ECT, Dr. R., ended up being indicted for molesting a patient, and was revealed as someone who over-prescribed medications. Was he ever convicted? What was that like for you?
Cheney: All I know about Dr. R. is that he is still treating patients, because a friend of mine is seeing him. For a long time, I wondered whether I had made a mistake in having ECT, because I had relied so heavily on his judgment. But I've since made peace with that. I think he's a very good doctor in some ways, certainly a talented diagnostician. But like all doctors -- lest we forget -- he's only human.
Behrman: What prompted you to tell your story in Manic?
Cheney: I was hospitalized at UCLA in 1999 for severe depression. I was very frightened, because no one around me seemed to be getting better. We were all frustrated, flailing for words to describe what was going on inside our heads. I knew that unless we could tell the doctors and the other patients what we were experiencing, none of us had any hope of recovery. So I started writing. At first, I intended to write a clinical book about bipolar disorder. But eventually I realized that that wasn't what I really wanted to do. The world didn't need another textbook. I wanted to -- I needed to -- write my own truth, explain what the illness felt like inside my body and mind. If I couldn't tell my own story, how could I ever hope to tell anyone else's? And that's how Manic came to be.
Behrman: What advice do you have for people struggling with their bipolar disorder?
Cheney: There's a light shining on this illness. There's more hope, better treatment and more compassion than I've ever seen before. I can't tell you how positive the response to Manic has been. People truly seem interested and concerned. So try telling your own story to someone you think might be sympathetic -- a friend, a support group, or your journal. I think you'll be surprised.
Your relationship with your doctor(s) is also extremely important. I wish everyone with bipolar disorder could have a psychopharmacologist to prescribe the meds. Medication has been essential to my recovery, and I work really hard at being medication-compliant. I respect the pills, they're what keep me from plunging into a freezing riptide at midnight, with no clothes on. Or flying fourteen kites off the edge of a cliff in a raging thunderstorm. Or swallowing a pharmacy's worth of pills, chased down with a couple quarts of tequila. Or any of the other myriad insane things I did while I was in the grip of the disease.
And speaking of tequila: For years, I didn't really understand that you can't drink alcohol when you're bipolar. It wreaks havoc on your brain chemistry, plus -- and this is the really significant point -- the meds don't work if you're drinking. It's as simple as that: the meds don't work if you're drinking. So many of us have a dual diagnosis (mental illness combined with substance abuse), and there are special rules we need to live by. Not drinking or doing drugs is the first one. Sobriety is hard, but sanity is worth it.
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