Living Well
By Sarah Callender | April 8, 2015 |
This is also a stigma. The life-giving kind.
Part I
The other day, as I walked to my neighborhood bookstore, the sky was thunderstorming and the wind was whipping cherry blossoms to their untimely death. I was there to buy my husband a birthday gift: a pie cookbook and a book on urban gardening, and on purpose, I marched right past the New Fiction table because some days, the number of New Fiction books born each month overwhelms me. And this particular day, my heart was feeling more like concrete than muscle: news of the Kenyan university students and the mess of ISIS and Russia and Iran and nuclear blah-blah. Most of all, the stories surrounding the German co-pilot. It all felt too heavy. I didn’t need a table of beautiful New Fiction books to overwhelm me further.
But after paying for my husband’s gifts, I headed toward the exit, and, thinking it might actually feel good to admire beautiful books, I took a detour through the New Fiction section, the centerpiece of which is a patchwork of stacked novels arranged on a large, wood farm table. I shouldn’t have detoured. Instead of feeling inspired, I felt lame and self-indulgent. There were already so many books. I was trying to add another, or several others, to such excess?
Yes. Yes I was.
I write because I am curious and I want answers. I write because it’s fun. I write because on days when it’s not fun, I know, with absolute certainty, that the un-fun stretch will end, and I’ll go back to believing that I’m the luckiest, self-employed, unpaid fiction writer ever. Writing is my oxygen, or maybe writing is my way of breathing, and when I don’t breathe, I turn blue and fall over and bonk my head. Still, a farm table with a quilt of beautiful novels can, at the wrong moment, feel like a sucker punch.
(A Seemingly Unrelated) Part II
I also write because I am on the Bipolar spectrum, and I like to believe that my creativity, my desire to assemble words into essays and stories is one of the benefits of (as Therese Borchard calls it) my “faulty wiring.” Maybe my decision to tether my diagnosis to my creativity is an overly-hopeful bunch of hooey (surely I know many very creative people who don’t have mental health issues), but when I realized mental illness had set up camp in my DNA, much like a persistent, oppressive, berating, flatulent house-guest, I searched for possible silver linings of living–forever–with something that stinks like farts. Silver lining #1: I would not be as creative were it not for my faulty wiring.
I’m not crazy to believe there’s a connection. Neuroscientist Dr. Nancy Andreasen, in her article in The Atlantic, studies the possible links between mental health and creativity by examining brain scans and interviewing writers in the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She writes:
For years, I had been asking myself what might be special or unique about the brains of the [Iowa] workshop writers I had studied . . . [T]he answer finally came to me: creative people are better at recognizing relationships, making associations and connections, and seeing things in an original way—seeing things that others cannot see.
We (creative types) are also able to slip into subconscious states as we create. Andreasen writes:
Based on my interviews with the creative subjects in my workshop study, and from additional conversations with artists, I knew that such unconscious processes are an important component of creativity. For example, Neil Simon told me: “I don’t write consciously—it is as if the muse sits on my shoulder” and “I slip into a state that is apart from reality.”
We can see things that others cannot? We can slip into a state apart from reality? Sounds like we might be superheroes.
People tell me I shouldn’t share my bipolar diagnosis with others who might not understand, but I am fairly comfortable with my mental illness. I am terribly uncomfortable when news stories perpetuate the stigma of mental health by connecting mental illness with violence.
Hence my heaviness in the bookstore. We read stories of people “with a history of depression” killing innocent travelers and people in movie theaters and children in elementary schools, and we have no choice but to connect mental illness with violence. I know that people with depression alone do not fly an entire airplane of innocents into a mountain. But a lot of people don’t know that, and the stigma continues.
Outside the bookstore, I sat in my car, wondering, Where were the stories of people living well with mental illness? And then I laughed. Those stories would be really boring.
Sarah Callender woke up, made decaf coffee with a ton of cream, took her meds and sat down to write before her kids woke up. Then she got her kids off to school, did some freelance writing and ignored the many piles of clutter around her house. Then she worked on some fiction and spent some time feeling bad about the size of her inbox and the messiness of her house. Then her kids got home, and Sarah shuttled the kids to soccer and when they came home, and her husband came home, they sat down to a dinnerish type of meal, cobbled together using leftovers and tortillas and melted cheese and cut-up apples. And after a few hours of assisting with the kids’ homework and violin practice and spending time with her husband, she read and went to bed.
What’s not boring is a story about a guy who flies a plane into the Alps. And in news stories like these, it’s handy when there’s a reason to explain the killing spree. Oh . . . the co-pilot had a history of depression? Yes, that explains everything.
No. It explains nothing.
Part III (Where Part I and II Collide)
Why am I sharing this on Writer Unboxed? Good question. I admit I was working on a post about “How we make the personal feel universal in our fiction,” but I got all fired up about the German co-pilot, and that got me wondering how I can help shrink this stigma. And that got me wondering how many of you WU’ers might see things that others cannot, how many of you can slip into something apart from reality. I imagine some of you struggle, like I do, to maintain mental health; assuming that’s the case, is there some way to get our “living well” stories out there?
Yes. But it’s not necessarily through sharing news stories or even our boring personal stories. Rather, we can focus on sharing the stories invented by our wonderful brains. The brains that allow us to imagine what others cannot. The brains driven by a need to create stories that, with years of practice and tenacity, might end up on the New Fiction tables of bookstores.
Where are the stories of people living well with mental illness? Literally right in front of us, on our computer screens and in our notebooks, in our short fiction and novels and memoir and poetry, ready to delight and surprise, to illuminate and inspire, and perhaps to protect the world from the sad, the senseless, the tragic.
You may not be comfortable sharing your experience with mental illness, or, you may have a super-sized serving of creativity without a side of mental illness, but will you share some of the silver linings of being a creative person? What about the drawbacks? How have you used your creative superpowers to create fiction that’s used for Good? Any ideas about how we might work to destigmatize mental illness? Thank you, superheroes, for reading and for sharing.
Lily stigma photo compliments of Flickr’s Stuart Richards.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
Thank you for sharing your story here today, Sarah. I do slip into an almost unconscious state when I write. Maybe it’s the muse. Maybe it’s my subconscious. Either way, it’s all a part of the magic of writing that somehow heals us each time we work.
Yes, Karen. The magic of writing (i.e. where on earth are these imaginary people/scenes coming from?!?) is a major part of why I write. And, I have learned that when I trust the muse-magic, the story is so much more “true” than when I rely on my own strength to muscle it on to the page.
Thank you for your lovely words this morning!
Thank you for sharing this, Sarah. Bipolar disorder runs in my family, as does schizophrenia, so the issue of stigma is close to my heart. I have neither, thankfully, though I have wrestled with that demon called anxiety more often than I’d like to admit, particularly in large social situations.
I’ve come to realize my anxiety often stems from an enhanced ability to pick up on the moods and feelings of those around me. It can be a constant battle to sort out all the “noise”, particularly if someone around me is in a negative mood. I’ll internalize it and often blame myself. I also pick up on the energy of places. There have been houses that give off such a negative vibe I can’t approach them. Others have this almost manic feel to them that makes me want to run to my laptop and write for days on end.
I’m not sure any of this would be classified as an illness but it certainly does make me experience the world in a way that is “other.” Though there are times when it feels more curse than blessing, I would not be half the writer I am without my quirks. Extreme empathy grants me the ability to see situations from different viewpoints and experience a wider range of emotions than my quite ordinary life would provide. I give it all to my writing.
Yes, Kim. I know exactly what you mean. I often imagine my skin as having about a billion more “sensors” (does skin have sensors?) than the average person. Don’t you think this is both a blessing and a burden?
I cannot go into one of those terrible video game arenas . . . I used to think it was because I hated video games, but no. It’s the mega-stimulation that makes me feel like I will jump right out of my over-sensored skin. Same with Disneyland. Same with Raves. I can’t go to more than one rave a week. ;)
I just loved your sharing, and yes, you do give it all to your writing. Such a beautiful last sentence of your comment.
Thank you for your words this morning. Some words are lonely-making. Yours were the opposite.
I hear you about the “sensors” on the skin, Sarah. Sometimes I have that almost in the literal sense. I can be driven to distraction by a lump in my sock or an itchy tag. It is so easy for me to become over-stimulated when it comes to sounds, tastes, smells. Interestingly we had one of my daughters tested for a sensory processing disorder and I ran through the checklist and discovered it fit me at least as much as it did her!
This was a courageous post and I send you a virtual hug. Glad my comment resonated with you. If we ever meet IRL, I bet we get along great.
Yes, isn’t it fascinating how sensitivity and creativity seem to be partners? And yes, let’s meet some day IRL. I’d love it. ;)
Sarah, the joint laughter (flatulent house-guests) and vulnerable poignancy (set up camp in my DNA) you share here is so graceful. Thank you for this role-modeling.
I especially appreciate your social analysis of the news’ broad brushstrokes connecting mental illness with violence. We do need more stories of people with mental illness who cope, live successfully, and have fulfilled lives.
I have a HUGE extended family, a blend of close-knit ties and distance. We have depression and manic-depressive disorder in our midst among other illnesses and addictions. One of my close relationships is with a bi-polar cousin, who has struggled through the years to cope. Our relationship ebbs and flows. But that’s not unlike any of my relationships which move in and out of that dance of intimacy.
I have often wondered if creativity is born from feeling like an outsider peering in. I was born with a hearing impairment and when younger often felt outside the popular relationship circles. Perhaps creativity is produced by that sense of “otherness” or of being shunned or of being oppressed? It is one way of responding to circumstances over which we have no control.
Thank you for a thought-provoking morning.
Gosh, Lisa. This is so beautiful.
It makes me wonder how many of us writers have had imaginary friends (I did). I wonder if we write, in part, to create worlds and relationships where we DO fit in, where we DO feel comfortable and have deep connections. That’s such a cool possibility.
Thank YOU for planting these ideas in my head. And for sharing.
Sarah, your post reminds me of the theme of the Peter Shaffer play, Equus. That a life lived well, or higher, or deeper (where we as writers go so often) may come with a cost. I’d say it doesn’t have to manifest itself in true mental illness, but can come in subtler ways, like when someone is trying to talk to you and you’re visualizing a scene. Or you visit a friend in the hospital and offer comfort, while part of your mind is taking notes on the location.
Are such costs worth paying? Not the mental illness cost, I would say, but the words of the boy to the doctor in Equus still resound: “At least I galloped — when did you?”
Yes, James! Or when you are out to dinner with your friend or your spouse and you cannot be 100% focused on the person at your table because the people at the table next to you are having a conversation, a tiff, a first date, and their words are too delicious to ignore.
Thank you, also, for sharing that beautiful line in Equus. Galloping really can be both thrilling and exhausting, and we cannot choose to experience only deep joy. We get both ends of the spectrum.
I am grateful for these ideas, James. Thank you!
Someone once told me that our best quality is often also our worst quality. For me, my imagination has given me wonderful stories, characters who made me feel less alone, and much, much joy. My imagination has also created angst and fear and paranoia, and caused all sorts of nice, ordinary moments, like a walk around the neighborhood, to evolve into possible horror-filled scenarios. I try to channel the darkness out of my “real life” and into my writing. Some days it works better than others, but I’ll take it. I’m not sure who I would be without my imagination, without my writing, but I do know that I don’t want to find out. :)
So true that our best traits are often also our worst. And I agree . . . I wouldn’t want to find out who I’d be if I couldn’t do something creative. I know it wouldn’t be pretty.
I’m so glad you write the anxiety right out of your head. I know I do something similar.
Happy writing to you!
Really great post, Sarah, and I agree with you. Creativity allows me to process life’s hardest parts and trickiest bits, and run theories through imaginary people. It’s how I cope and learn, honestly, with these hardest parts and trickiest bits, and I’m beyond grateful that I have this outlet.
We had a conversation the other night at the dinner table about language–about whether we’d be able to think through difficult things without an inner dialog. Would we? Could we muse about the meaning of life or mortality or a range of choices and such without words and concepts? Words are building blocks for ideas, and with them we can create structures, even full cities of theory and possibility. We can create towns in which people don’t fly planes into mountains. We can go back in time and fix that copilot just before he laces his shoes that morning. And that makes us feel like we’ve done something that matters — because we have. Somewhere out there may be a guy about to put on his shoes, who sees a sentence in a book or a magazine, or hears one over the radio or TV, that reaches in and stills his hand and resets his mind and makes a difference. Words may be all we have, but I would argue that they are more powerful than anything; they are our most impactful tool for change.
I have no idea if any of this makes sense, so I’m just going to hope that it does and click Submit. Thanks again, Sarah. I’m so glad that you’re a part of the WU family.
Everything you said makes PERFECT sense. I was worried my post wouldn’t make any sense, and I am sure, to some, it doesn’t. But your words (and how they resonate with so many of us) illustrate why this community shines. We get each other in so many ways.
Second, I want to eat dinner with your family. My family (at least the two smaller members of my family) roll around in their chairs and make burping sounds, then bat their eyelashes with innocence. I think my IQ has dropped at least 25 points since having kids . . . and it wasn’t exactly “Genius” level to begin with.
I love your line about running theories by your characters. Brilliant and so true. Thank you for your lovely comment.
xo!
Give those burpers a couple of years. I suspect they’ll surprise you. Mine surprised me!
Your post is so honest, Sarah. You are so honest. I hate the term ‘mental illness’. Everyone’s chemistry is different, just as everyone’s sexuality is laced with its own fine nuances. But we live in a culture of labels and brands. And yes, stigmas. Depression, anxiety disorders and alcoholism run thru my family, too. I think it was Pat Conroy telling Terry Gross that you usually don’t have to go back too far in any family to find the crazy. I even hate that word, because these things we carry around with us are out inverse Gifts. I loved Kim’s post, above. I have that same thing going on. Empaths wear their skin inside out. I think for most of us, writing is the cure, the balm, the elixir. It gives our own brand of suffering a purpose. We get to try and make sense of the madness in the world, but also to point out the beauty. And the humor, which you are so brilliant at. I always look forward to your words.
Hi Susan,
Thank you.
Pat Conroy sure is right about that. And the term “mental illness” really does hit a nerve with some people. I have one friend who struggles with depression, and I once used that term to describe what she deals with. I think she almost punched me in the gut. Now I know better.
I am comfy with the term because if I know it’s an illness, I know two things: First I (and this is a personal decision) know that *I* need medication. Why? Because I have an illness. I also don’t mind the term because it reminds me that there’s only so much I can do to control/manage it. Otherwise, I think I’d go back to that place where I feel like a loser or a failure or someone other than who I know I am . . . all because I can’t control my moods.
I always love your comments. That makes us even. :) Thank you for your encouragement!
Sarah,
It is very encouraging to me to read about your life, and your wading through the daily grind. It looks like mine!
With all these variables, family, housework, cooking, relationships, sanity, it’s amazing we ever write.
But somehow we do..
I now have an even bigger appreciation for all those pretty new novels.
I’ll look for yours when it gets there.
Thank you, Kathy, for your sweet comment. And your words show me that you make writing a priority (along with all the other priorities you have). No easy feat for sure!
I will look forward to seeing YOUR beautiful book on the table at my local bookstore someday!
Happy writing to you.
:)
Sarah, I rarely comment on WU, but this touched me. Thank you for sharing your story. I’ve struggled with depression, and amazingly enough, I’ve managed not to drive an airplane into a mountain as a result. You’re absolutely right about the stigma of mental illness. Perhaps if we treated it more like a medical condition and less like a precursor to crime, people would be more likely to get help. Like so many creatives, I’ve felt an “otherness” all my life. Does everybody feel that way, or just creative people? I don’t know. I do know that we are who God created us to be, and sometimes, that’s messy and confusing. But that’s life–messy and confusing. I think that’s why I write–to try to make sense of the insane.
Thank you for sharing.
“Amen” on so many levels, Robin. Your comment about “amazingly enough, I’ve never . . . ” made me laugh out loud. Isn’t it preposterous?!?
I hope, by the time my children (currently 10 and 12) are adults, the stigma of mental health issues will have vanished. I read and interesting article about Cancer funding . . . cancer used to have a stigma; it was a word you only whispered. Now look how comfy we are about discussing and funding it.
I guess, because depression and bipolar and other “situations” cannot be seen on a CT scan, it makes non-sufferers question whether it’s real. I think, erasing the stigma requires a combination of education, empathy and funding. I wonder what my role is in that . . .
There have been loads of blessings that have come as a result of my diagnosis, and I know that my faith allows me to share it because I only have to care what my husband, my family, my closest friends and God think of me. If they are OK with my diagnosis, then I am too. :)
Thank you so much for sharing, Robin. The empathy is such a gift.
Thank you for this post and for being so matter-of-fact about your situation. I know enough people who live with bipolar illness that it isn’t a big deal for me to hear it anymore — it’s lost its stigma. Which is great, I think. And only happens when more people are open about it.
As someone who is being treated for depression and anxiety, I’ve been thinking a lot about that pilot and the media coverage, too. Does there need to be a flood of boring, daily life Tweets from people who have depression and are doing thrilling things like their jobs, and having friends, and taking out the garbage?
As a creative person, I’d say that I definitely draw more connections and notice more hidden-in-plain-sight things than other people I know. And I’ve got the same thing about the feel of buildings and houses, which made house hunting much simpler; many houses were out of the question just based on feel. But when I’m all bound up in anxiety, I know that my imagination is working overtime to make things worse, imagining things and conversations that wind me up tighter and make me angrier and more fearful than I need to be. So now I try to consciously use my imagination “for good” and make up backstories for people who irritate me so I’ll be more sympathetic to them. I try to redirect my imagination to a story I’m working on when it’s digging me into a real-life hole. It’s not a perfect system, but it does help.
Gosh. I feel so filled up and fueled by all of these comments . . . yours included, Natalie. I can relate to everything you say. And I laughed about how your sensitivity made house-hunting so efficient!
I do that very same thing when I am trying to “love” someone who is extremely irritating. Because you do that, I bet you actually carry a lot more forgiveness than the average Joe. And that, in my book, is a good thing.
I will be thinking about you as you search for some relief. I know it can be a long and frustrating road. Thank you so much for sharing. It makes my day!
This is a beautiful post, Sarah, for many reasons. You have such a healthy attitude towards life and mental illness, and use your powers for good, which makes you awesome in my book.
I’m the creative mind married to bipolar. The highs and lows are difficult, but I wouldn’t trade a single moment for any other illness. I believe we were destined to be together: I am an uncontrollable optimist with mostly steady skies on the horizon, meant to balance his moody thunderstorms. We carry the disorder together.
Today’s wish is that you have all the love you need to carry you too, Sarah.
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Hi Denise,
I just loved your comment . . . and bless you for being such a good partner to your husband. I bet he feels as fortunate to have you as I do to have my husband. He, like you, is a rock. There have been moments when I wish he had more of a range in his emotions, but all the other moments, I am SO glad he is so steady. Poor guy didn’t even know what he was getting into when he married me! Neither did I!
I rely heavily on my “team” and I bet your husband does too. I’m so glad you’re part of the WU team too. You are a beautiful writer . . . and an equally beautiful human!
Happy day to you.
:)
Thank you for this post, Sarah. I found this part particularly interesting:
“Dr. Nancy Andreasen, in her article in The Atlantic…writes: . . . [T]he answer finally came to me: creative people are better at recognizing relationships, making associations and connections, and seeing things in an original way—seeing things that others cannot see.”
Creative writers ARE different. I’m always amazed when people tell me they can not think of anything to write about. I have trouble narrowing down the topic.
I appreciate you taking the time to try and de-stigmatize mental illness. In a silver lining world, we should embrace our differences.
Yes, Valerie. It’s so interesting to me that not everyone is as able to see those connections and relationships! I assume that everyone does, and it always surprises me when my husband looks at me with a blank expression when I point out something “so obvious.”
Thank you for sharing! We writers are a special (define special however you like!) group of people, no?
Happy writing to you. Thanks for taking the time to leave a note. :)
Thank you for this post, Sarah. Like others here, I was both amused and touched. More, I felt a sisterly identification. My tendency to go into a dream state when observing life means I still get lost in the city I’ve lived in most of my life. How can you explain this, without sounding…well, crazy? Still, it’s a part of who I am; the “bad” part that goes along with the ability to see things that others can’t.
Yes! I have learned to accept that I am not as “type A” as I once was . . . in fact, the more I embrace my writerly self, the more flaky (and more creatively productive) I become.
I’ll look forward to thinking of you each time I get lost in my own city. ;)
Hey Sarah – First I want to say that your bravery only makes you more admirable and adorable. Your post and Kim’s comment made me think of a theory I read about writers. I wish I could recall where I read it, but the theory applies to the connection between creativity and the layers of human interrelationships. The first layer is simple communication, usually words, between two people—i.e. what we say to one another. The next layer is reading the subtext of what is said through other cues, such as facial expression, hand gestures, body language, etc. The third, as I recall, was the processing of our internal motivations and the analysis of our counterpart’s unspoken goals and motivations—i.e. What do they want? What do I want that I can’t say? Etc. You can theoretically add addition layers by adding others, even those not present—i.e. If my counterpart and I to agree to this, how does it affect Joe Schmoe’s situation? If Joe loses out to our agreement, how does that affect Jane Schmane? And so on.
The thesis that was then presented was that most *average* (non-artist type) people have a varying grasp of the first two or three layers, but that novelists must have a firm grasp of three levels, and at least a partial grasp of the layers beyond. And that most have not only a grasp of 3+, but a deeper sensitivity to those layers beyond. When I first read about this I, at first, despaired. A simple reflexive response, thinking I was fairly thoughtless, and socially clumsy. But then I started thinking about it in the context of my work. If I may humbly suggest it, my work has a very large cast, and a fairly complex world. I realized that as I compose, I am constantly analyzing how the actions and interactions of characters will affect others—sometimes many others. As for those social situations, turns out I’m just not that empathetic to *real* people. Perhaps capable, but still insensitive. ;-)
I’m not sure if this advances the conversation, but I can’t account for how my brain is wired, and this is what popped out of it this morning once I fed it with the fuel above. Thanks for being so real here, Sarah. And great comments, WU community! Very thought-provoking stuff.
I LOVED this comment, Vaughn. Thank you. And I agree wholeheartedly about the fabulousness of this WU community. And, I haven’t been called “adorable” since 1972, so thank you!!!
I loved your explanation of all the layers we writers are able to note and process. I’ve never thought about it in that way, and it’s really quite brilliant. Since you can’t recall your source, you should just adopt it as “Vaughn’s Theory.” You could make millions. And I will visit you in jail. Plagiarism Jail.
Thank you for sharing. You are a highlight of my writing life.
:)
That’s a great reminder – the more troubled, the better the art…! ;)
But seriously, I firmly believe that the condition of something being a little bit “off” (even if it’s just feeling shitty on a particular day, lovesickness or whatever) facilitates artistc work tremendously.
Yes, Alex! For a while I worried that I had lived too “easy” of a life to be considered a tortured writer. And then I realized that I had been struggling with my mental health since age 15, and that added plenty of . . . well, pain, I suppose.
More recently, I realized that we writers don’t have to live tortured lives. We just have to have the ability to feel deeply. Yes, I can check that box! I think all of us WU’ers can.
Thanks for sharing, Alex. I am grateful to “meet” you.
:)
Sarah,
Your sharing is so positive and to the point. First, I too have had the bookstore experience and I’m not sure if it helps me or discourages me when I see all those bright new novels waiting to be read. I know I long for mine to nestle with them–one never knows. And second, I had a period of depression which fueled one of my novels (which still needs work) but I think fed some of my best writing. So yes, and after reading others comments, creating and imagination and the ability to spill one’s life and guts out on paper has to be connected to some BRAIN THING, some change in chemistry, perhaps. We call it many things, often related to the muse, but for many, and your post is an example–it’s the strength to reveal and share in a startling way. Mental health might always hold some mysteries, but your post is factual and brave. Thanks again.
Such great words, Beth. Thank you! I so appreciate the empathy–such as yours–I find at WU.
Let’s make a pact . . . that we BOTH will have our books on that table some day. Do we have a deal? I hope so. I think our books would look really great on that table. :)
Happy writing to you!
I know about depression. In fact, I don’t know what a day without depression looks like. There are the days when it engulfs me and there are the days when it’s a light touch on my wrist to remind me it hasn’t left, but it’s always there. Anyone who believes it includes flying planes into mountains doesn’t understand it. It has nothing to do with harming others, quite the contrary. At it’s worst, it’s about feeling inadequate and wanting to make the world a better place for everyone else by removing yourself from the world. People inherently have difficulty understanding any mental process that doesn’t mimic their own and that often brings about fear concerning intent and scope. The stigma is fading, but it’s far from gone, unfortunately.
Thank you, Christina, for the rawness and honesty of your comment. You are not alone. In fact, I would bet there are hundreds or thousands of WU readers who feel the same, yet they are unable to comment. And I get that too. It is a tough thing to put “out there.”
So I thank you for your empathy and compassion. And thank you very much for backing me up on my claim that depressed people don’t kill others. You are SO right.
Love to you!
Oh, Sarah, what a fabulous post. Dipping into the well of Creativity is one of the biggest blessings of life, whether you’re an “artist” or not.
Something as simple as attacking a blank piece of paper with a box of crayons or markers can be enough to release all that has gone wrong with our day into something more manageable and palatable to our senses.
And lets talk about doodling. I was always a bit embarrassed by my doodles because they never looked like much. Many of my friends would doodle and end up with full-blown charicatures or landscapes or psychedelic patterns of joy. I had lines and curves and circles and boxes and the same daisy over and over and over. This was frustrating until I realized the “motion” of creating those lines, however simple, freed my thoughts and unlocked my heart to hear what I was listening to in a different way, or to understand exactly how I felt about the situation I was in. The motion of the body brings us back to our true self and from this place our creativity soars, our days look brighter and our relationships are healthier.
I often think of my writing as the big doodle. The page a place where I can explore again and again what it is that needs to be said. Each day I doodle with pen and paper until the motion carries me into another world where I can sort through the complexities of life for someone else, and there by gain a greater understanding and appreciation of my own.
Oh, how I love this comment, Jocosa! Thank you for tying in your love of doodles. My daughter is ten, and I have, unfortunately, passed along my faultily-wired DNA to her. To help her during those difficult ups and downs, I got her a Zen Doodle book. That sounds a lot like your style of doodle. I find it so meditative to doodle, but I have never associated doodling with writing. Thank you for drawing a line between those two acts of creativity. Brilliant, really!
So glad you are here are WU.
Happy writing to you!
Thank you for a courageous post, Sarah. The stigma of mental illness affects us all. Our society labels those who are emotionally different insane but refuses to recognize the insanity inherent in war, poverty, discrimination and violence. Those who live with cancer and other debilitating diseases are lauded for their bravery but we whisper about mental illness only to our closest friends.
We all suffer as a result: both those with different brain chemistry and those who live with and love them. Thank you for speaking your truth.
Rita,
I can tell, by your compassion and empathy, that you are a writer. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and your encouragement. I do think we creative types could really mobilize to create beautiful things in our needs-more-beauty world. Thank you for being one of those beauty-adders.
:)
Thank you for your honest and insightful post. I used to think bipolar and depression were fundamental to greatness – scientist, actors, authors like Dickens, Hemingway, Woolf, Tolstoy, Rowling, just to name a few.
I stand among the great with the creative ebb and flow; some days waves, some days tsunamis. Sometimes I wake in the night with my story in progress, or a my brain triggering the solution to a plot problem that propels me from the bed, grabbing for pen and paper before it flies away in the manner of dreams.
The down side is when I fall into the black hole and want to quit. I am wise enough to know that it is a cycle and sunshine is literally on the horizon. I know I will find myself sitting here, once again at the keyboard of my imagination.
Thank you for sharing. Always good to know WE ARE NOT ALONE.
Thank you, Dawn. I love that you mention what happens when we are at rest . . . Andreasen mentions this in her article. You’ve heard how a lot of writers, when they feel stuck, go for a walk to unstick themselves? There’s some fascination info about that in the Atlantic article.
Our brains are such fascinating organs!
Thank you for sharing the heights and depths of your moods . . . you and I are absolutely not alone!
:)
I love your writing, Sarah. I get WU posts via email, and I always think “I wonder if this is Sarah Callender writing this one?” I am delighted when it is!
Thank you, Michael! This means so very much. It’s hard to know, right before I post something, if my words will resonate with anyone besides my mom and dad (who are, of course, genetically predisposed to like my stuff).
Thank you for being a part of WU!
Thanks Sarah.
Every time my aunt goes to the library she says, “There are so many books already, Greta, I don’t see why you’d want to write one.” It’s very encouraging, like your farm table of new fiction.
I believe “mental illness” is a spectrum we are all susceptible to in one degree and in some way. There is no such thing as “normal”. My mother, an incredible musician, would probably have been diagnosed bipolar if she had been born twenty years later.
Regarding the “sensors on the skin” you and Kim were discussing above. There is a fascinating podcast from Invisibilia about a woman with Mirror Touch Synesthesia. It might inspire a new character! https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510307/invisibilia
Fabulous, Greta! Thank you. Isn’t it interesting how we can trace our family tree and family lore and “know” that so-and-so would have had a diagnosis had she lived in a different decade? I see the same in my maternal great-grandmother. And I wonder how much she suffered in silence.
Some people don’t like the burden of a label, but for me it’s helpful. I like the ability to call a spade a spade and then get the appropriate help. So I can function. So I can live.
In the Andreasen article, she notes that some of the most famous creative people may not have a full-blown mental health issue themselves, but they have a close relative who does (a parent or sibling). They are not debilitated by a mental illness, but they have just a few strands of that quirky DNA. Fascinating, no?
Thank you, Greta, for sharing! What a gift to hear from you all.
:)
Sarah, I’ve been conscious of my own faulty wiring (and why won’t that repair person return my call?) for many years. Sometimes, as you suggest, it might provide the current behind the sparks of language and creation, but other times, it’s a dead battery: depression’s dull weight, where I do nothing for days.
I just edited a memoir of a woman who has had multiple severe bipolar episodes, requiring stints of hospitalization. In the meantime, she’s become a stand-up comic. Hey, what’s funnier than being bipolar? (Her book has many hilarious accounts. And many scary ones. Sometimes both simultaneously.)
The author of the bipolar memoir is sharing her story to let outsiders get a glimpse in, and to help the ones who already know firsthand what her condition can be about. I’m with Therese: words can be our most impactful tool for change.
You are a speaker of truth and funniness, Tom, which I already knew. And you aren’t exaggerating when you mention the weight of depression. During those lows, it’s hard to put a coherent string of three words together much less a chapter.
That was an interesting part of Andreasen’s article . . . apparently the most “successful” creatives have just a dollop of mental illness. And that makes sense. As you suggest, it’s easier to write words that can change the world if we are able to get out of bed. Sigh.
Thank you for sharing, Tom. I knew I liked you.
Thank you for this thoughtful post, Sarah. I sometimes think that anyone who’s paying attention to the world must suffer from some form of depression or anxiety at one time or another. I wish we could be more open about it with each other, and that the words “mental illness” would carry no more or less weight than any other illness we are able to treat. I suffer from something I jokingly refer to as a “tenuous grasp on reality.” I often wonder if other people are seeing what I’m seeing as I walk into a room. It’s similar to what Kim described, and sometimes it’s simply too much, and I have to walk right back out. But it’s also the gift that’s responsible for any amount of creativity I might possess. So, on different days, I have different opinions about it. But the truth is, I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
There are times I walk away, too, Bru! Or feel like I hit a brick wall before entering in the first place. I am so relieved I’m not the only one!
Preach it, Brunonia and Kim! There really is a lot of baggage we sensitives carry around, isn’t there? But a lot of bags (I always tell myself) means I will most certainly have an outfit for every possible occasion. Also an emotion. And a feeling.
I wouldn’t change a helix of my DNA either. Thank you, both, for sharing. There is such comfort in knowing I am not the only weirdo.
Happy writing!
Thank you for talking about your bipolar disorder. The stigma with mental illness is a big issue I find myself fighting against. How the media has addressed the copilot issue has made me so angry!
I have shared my own mental illness story, for anyone interested: https://kirabudge.weebly.com/my-blog/obsessive-compulsive-my-story
Beautiful, Kira. Thank you so much for sharing your blog post with us . . . and thanks for your empathy.
Happy writing to you.
:)
Sarah
I want to linger with you and this post all day, because, as usual, you raise not one issue but many.
To be polite, I’ll try to touch on only a few things and reinforce one of the threads of these commenters. Born into a dysfunctional family (that is a redundant expression if ever there was one), before I could speak, I was labeled as ‘mental.’ What my brothers and parents were saying is ‘we need you to be the garbage can for our unprocessed waste.’ To survive the system, I bought in.
Luckily for me, I desperately wanted to discover what normal was (What they said THEY had) and over the years, I realized there was no such thing. Everyone is wounded in his/her private war–we receive a body and mind with no users manual and lots of incoming missiles. Some chose to ignore and cover their vulnerability. Others (perhaps a group that includes artists) long to explore the unspeakable. Without wanting to be flip or unfeeling towards anyone who is labeled as mentally ill, my take is we are all mentally ill. Indeed we are all capable of the open cellular feeling you and Kim discuss, though many are so frightened by it they retreat to the world of stiff ideology. (Is THAT healthy?) Creative people use it, to varying degrees of contentment.
Perhaps this condition is hardest on the those trying to ride the fence AND in the hope of finding one true identity. (We have many identities–we artists feed off them.) Me, I gave up a long time ago and exist doing my best to process all that flows through this remarkable journey of “living well.” Less self-judgment and comparison, and more opened eyes to all that is, inside AND out, dilutes the burden of being gifted to care about what is going on. It frees us. I salute all the writers here and all creative people . . . for their bravery. We will help others in their journeys.
And a special ‘hats off’ to you this morning.
Tom,
Your words are gorgeous. Thank you for sharing, though I must say, I want to find your family and punch them . . . or at least, show them your words and say, “See? Tom won.” Because you did.
I keep re-reading your comment because there is so much grace and beauty there. I’ll just say this: thank you. You are a part of the WU community’s beauty.
Happy writing, Tom.
Excellent post. Creative people run deep! Shared with others. Thanks.
Thank you, Carol!
Sarah, I understand your reluctance to share your mental health in such a public forum. I’ve also endured bouts of depression and euphoria mixed in with periods of creativity. I don’t feel that most artists suffer from true mental illness. Such individuals can’t function properly in society and eventually act out in a violent manner. Artists are just more in tune with the subconscious aspects of humanity, which allows us to communicate to the general public the various moods and emotions that comprise the human experience. Dr. Andreasen pretty much confirms that. So, please don’t consider yourself mentally ill! We artists are just blessed with a higher level of human understanding.
Thanks, Alejandro. I appreciate your perspective!
To be honest, I am just fine with the term, “mentally ill.” I take medication because it literally keeps me alive and able to function as a wife, mom, writer, friend. My brain does allow me to have a sensitivity to things that not everyone does, but it also would, if I didn’t seek appropriate treatments, knock me right down. Just like cancer or diabetes or a bad heart would knock me down if I didn’t see the appropriate treatments.
There are definite blessings though. Being able to connect with people here is one of the big ones. :)
Happy writing to you, Alejandro.
Thanks for this post. Bipolar runs in my family. My mom has been diagnosed (as a kid, I just thought it was normal to go to Hudsons department store, buy thousands of dollars worth of new suits for my dad or the same shoe in every color for my mom, sneak it all into the house so Dad wouldn’t see, and then return it all a week later). Her father, while undiagnosed, likely suffered from it as well. I show tendencies toward it every once in a while. When my mom was diagnosed, she was worried about telling my sister and I. My answer to her was, ‘Mom, you’ve always been this way. Now we just have a name for it and you can get help with it.” My mom would not think of herself as a creative person, though, so I don’t know if, in her case, they are connected.
For me, creativity, whether or not it is connected to something you can find in the DSM-IV, is all about making those connections, whether while you’re reading or writing or designing a program or developing a process that works. I thrill to connect, put into context, and understand how one thing leads to another. Writing is mean to communicate. And it is the most marvelous connection I can think of. To take thoughts and electrical impulses from my head, translate them into movements on a keyboard which become black marks on a page that represent sounds, which strung together make words and sentences and stories and sagas, which are then viewed by someone I will never meet, whose eyes send those marks to a brain which then re-translates them into thoughts and electrical impulses that cause that person to laugh, to cry, to feel. That is an incredible, magical connection. And that’s why I write.
Erin,
I loved every word of your comment. Thank you. The story of your mother is really beautiful . . . thank you for sharing that part of your story/history too.
Yes, there are certainly people who struggle with mental health but wouldn’t consider themselves creative. And that interests me. In the Atlantic story, Andreasen noticed that some of the most creative people had a mother, father or other very close blood relative who had a severe form of illness, but this relative was not necessarily creative. So maybe the most creative people have just a smidge of faulty wiring? It’s so fascinating to me.
I’m so glad you write and forge connections through your writing. It’s a huge gift! Thanks for connecting here too. :)
Sarah,
I found out about ten years ago that I have a mild form of bipolar illness that is easily managed with mood stabilizers. It has never caused me great grief in my life, other than sometimes turning me into a night owl or occasional elevated moods. If anything, it has made me more a fit for the creative lifestyle, because I find the irregularity of my moods makes it very difficult to work in a conventional job. Being a writer, and an overall creative sort, on the other hand, means if I’m on a roll and want to work all through the night, when the creativity is hot, then I go for it. There’s a good reason I picked freelance editing as my day job, since that is deadline-based and, like writing, I can allot time to my projects however I’d like.
Your post today also makes me think of the book, The Gargoyle, which makes a wonderfully ambiguous depiction of mental illness vs. spiritual inspiration in Mary-Anne Engel. I really related to that book. Have you read it? If not, I highly recommend it. My work with art, as well as stories, similar to how the narrator of The Gargoyle discribes it in Mary-Ann, sometimes takes shape like something growing inside of me and I know I have no choice but to stop everything and capture it. It’s absolutely crazy! But WONDERFUL.
It is truly sad that there is stigma for mental illness. I think a lot of it is based on fear. I don’t share openly with everyone I meet that I have a mental illness, but I have no problem talking about it. I don’t feel it means there’s anything wrong with me–in fact if anything it makes me feel more human. There are many great community-based incentives to combat stigma, and they will continue, but my own attempt to help combat stigma is less direct. I feel I strong urge to inform as a writer through characters who are not perfect. In fact, every time I see an aspect of imperfection in someone I am inspired to bring that very thing to life in my fiction. I truly believe that broken characters take us closer to the truth of what it means to be human in the world, since the stereotypical “normal” person is, in fact, a projection, a nonsensical notion devised by collective beliefs about what we think the world ought to be. If we want to break down boundaries that separate us, then we need to break down those false beliefs, and you know what they say about writers…they can change the world.
So I write, whenever inspiration strikes, and for all my imperfection, I hope to leave behind some gems that will help improve the world in a small way. And you know what they say about small things…they add up.
I could lap up your writing all day, John. Thanks for sharing your experience and your wisdom. And, thanks for mentioning The Gargoyle. I LOVE what you said about something being inside you and when it starts bumping around you have no choice but to pay attention. Or capture it. Or nurture it. That’s a pretty powerful image.
I (maybe like you) feel great relief knowing that I am broken human. Plus, broken is far more interesting than perfect and prettified. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m so glad you are a part of WU, John.
Keep up that writing.
:)
Sarah, give me long enough and I could come up with the functional MRI studies which show the brain of a bipolar lights up in more areas when doing creative work than that of the typical human, whatever that is. You’re not imagining it.
Between the Internet and the prevalence of mental health issues, I think the stigma will eventually fade. How can we continue to make it a shameful secret when more than 50% of women are diagnosed with a major depression in their lifetime? (Men probably have it as often, but the macho ethos prevents them from seeking help.) It would be helpful, though, to get to the point where we notice people getting into big trouble and learn to intervene in a loving, respectful manner. (Would be helpful to have better treatments, too!)
I’ve had depression myself, come from a family rife with DSM-IV diagnoses. It’s certainly given me fodder for my fiction and, I hope, a goodly dose of empathy and compassion for those who suffer. In particular, it would be hard for me to write a mwuahaha villain because that’s not how my reality is constructed; people always have good-to-them reasons for the destructive decisions they make, and that’s true whether they are suicidal pilots, the TV anchors who speak of them, or New Fiction writers who’ve managed to reach the trestle table. ;)
I adore you, Jan. I should have asked you to dig up some scientific evidence for this post. Lesson learned.
Thanks for your humor and your empathy. That’s one of the many gifts of having a fragile-wiring situation: we can win gold medals in empathy. In fact, why is that not an Olympic event?!?! I could rep the US and you could rep Canada, and we could rig the finals so we can both stand on the high podium and get golds. You talk to your people, and I’ll talk to mine, and we’ll see what we can work out.
I have always wondered about the proper way to spell “mwuahaha.” And now I know. (And I totally agree that those types are just not as interesting to me (probably because they are not as real to me).
I’m grateful to know you. You’re so smart and funny, so graceful and talented.
xo!
Wow. Great piece. This is actually a few great pieces. Sorry I’m late to join in, but I had to offer a few things:
1. I was just in a Barnes & Noble store. I feel the opposite when I see piles and piles of books, most of which I want to buy and can’t. But I think: Why not mine, too? Not that I’m Stephen King or Dan Simmons or Alice Munro, but there are a lot of new books out, too, so why can’t mine be one of them? P.S.–I see all these books, all these new books by unknown writers, and I wonder what the hysteria is all about re: the death of books, e-publishing and self-publishing.
2. I think you, Sarah Callender, could write a very good–and a very interesting–book about regular folks (ie–non-violent) who live with mental illness. Seems to me that articles about people with mental illness are like articles about teachers: you only read about the ones who’ve done very bad things, and then the public thinks that’s all of them. Misrepresentation and media-generated public bias at its finest! You could set the record straight with a good, funny non-fiction book about you and about others who live non-violently with a mental illness that most people associate with violence. Or a book about balancing creativity, mental illness, and being a mom (and wife, etc.) Lots of people would read that book!
3. Yup, creative people do see things–real things, by the way–that non-creative people don’t. Connections built upon connections to the point that everything’s (literally) connected. But as Stephen King often points out, this is not always a blessing. We’ve also “seen” some really horrifying things that non-creative people simply cannot (literally) imagine. Often ignorance is bliss.
4. Totally unrelated: How do I make my picture show up in that little square when I respond here? All I get is that square design thing. Which is undoubtedly more attractive than my actual mug, but still…
I’ll tackle that blog-related question for you, Steven: Once you register a picture with your email at Gravatar.com–as long as you use the same address to leave comments here–your pic will appear. Your mug is welcome!
Darn it, woman. You really are a superhero! Omniscient and omni-awesome. Thank you. I would have had to make something up. ;)
Therese,
Thanks so much. That’s bothered me for a really long time! I’ll get on that.
You’re welcome! It’s good to see you.
Steven,
You are merely fashionably late! For the late-staying guests, I always save the best desserts and beverages. In other words, you are just in time.
Let’s see:
1. Yes. Why not you? And Why not me? That is such a good attitude. My attitude is more along the lines of “I’ve told too many people I’m trying to do this so I better do it, plus, I am modeling tenacity and stick-to-it-tiveness to my kids so I can’t give up now.” I know I can do “it” because I am willing to work my tush off. It sounds like you are too. That’s the best.
2. Thank you for your kind words. If I can’t get my fiction out there, I may indeed go a more creative-non-fiction route. That said, some days I get so bored with myself that I NEED to be with my fictional characters who are infinitely more interesting (to me) than I. But I’ll keep you posted. Thank you.
3. SO true! It is a blessing and a curse to see and feel that which others cannot. Some days I just feel so heavy. Maybe you do too. Maybe all writers do. It’s good to feel weighty. It’s hard to feel heavy. :)
4. I have no idea. Let me see if I can do some recon. I’ll get back to you.
Thank you for being here!
Sarah,
1. I never tell people what I’m working on, for just the reasons you mentioned: if it hits a bump (or a sinkhole) or it just bombs and never gets sold, I don’t have to tell anyone about that. And if I only talk about the stuff I’ve sold, it makes it seem like I only write stuff that sells! This is only to the non-writers, of course.
2. My nonfiction / memoir / poems are my Julia Cameron-like “morning pages,” if you will. I don’t have time to write actual morning pages, so that’s what my nonfiction, memoir, poem and blog writing is for. Plus, in this way, those longer projects get closer to being done as well, though they’re not my focus. I get bored with myself really easily, too. If you knew me, you would, too!
Thank you so much for this post, Sarah. Sorry I didn’t get to read it sooner.
After years (like, almost thirty years) of struggling with a whole range of mental issues, including multiple serious bouts of depression, I was diagnosed a few years ago with a general anxiety disorder and “mild” bipolar II. For me, getting that diagnosis was a turning point in my life. I no longer felt crazy — I had mental health problems. (For the record, I prefer the term “mental health” to “mental illness”, but neither particularly affects me.)
I was given a whole range of drugs to try — individually and a mix — and while they technically reduced my anxiety and stabilised my mood, they also left me in a zombie-like state: I didn’t feel creative, I stopped dreaming (both at night and day-dreaming), I stopped picking up on people’s moods, and reading about tragedies left me feeling…. nothing. Absolutely nothing. And while, in theory, that sounds like a better deal than feeling EVERYTHING with an insane intensity, in reality it was awful. I felt like I was a shell of a person.
So, with the help of my doctor, I went off the medication, and used mindfulness, food, exercise, and a change of lifestyle to control my mental health. And I found my highly creative, highly sensitive self again — minus the anxiety (16 months without an aniety attack and counting!) mania, and depression.
The ongoing stigma surrounding mental health is something that I feel very strongly about. I hate the media link between depression and violence, and got just as worked up about the German co-pilot story as you did. So, where are the stories abut people living well with mental illness? You’re right. We’re writing them. We are them.
I find that most of my protagonists have some kind of mental health issue. The protagonist of my current WIP is suffering from a life-endangering dopamine addiction, the protagonist of my most last manuscript suffered from anxiety, another has frequent anxiety attacks, yet another has depression and an extreme phobia. And all of them are the heroes — all of them “save the day”, or whatever the appropriate story-resolution happens to be.
I’m so grateful to hear another voice speaking out for an end to mental health stigmas. Well done, Sarah. Here’s to you!
Wow, this is an important and well-written post. Thank you Sarah. It is necessary for people to recognize that mentally ill people are in the world, thriving and hurting like the rest of us. And for people to feel OK or even good about sharing honesty, whatever it is they are going through.
I also have heard the point linking creativity to mental illness. What I know is that good art – quality writing, music or whatever that is insightful, resonates, questions, screams out – comes from tribulations and an understanding of suffering. I’m assuming that people who are mentally ill have had to grapple with these issues more than average.
Love you lots,
Tony