Half a Century with Bipolar Disorder
By Rochelle Cashdan
By Rochelle Cashdan
Can someone with bipolar disorder survive the illness for fifty years?
I know the answer is yes, even though the cards were stacked against me. My illness started half
a century ago but was only recognized and treated thirty-five years ago, meaning terrible times in
those fifteen years in between.
By the time I had two children, I never expected to live to see them reach their teens. Even
though I had ordinary living between the peaks and valleys, my illness had worn me out.
My luck changed. Lithium carbonate was finally approved by the FDA, long after it had been
used effectively in Australia, Britain and Canada. My doctor, who had been diagnosing me as
neurotic, saw the light; I agreed to begin taking medication.
My new relative safety took me a long time to believe. Once I was stable again, I assumed that
since I had had more than my share of suffering, the rest of my life would be a piece of cake.
Well, by now I’m an expert on late-life learning. Yes, my illness was treated effectively, but
medication did not protect me from divorce, underemployment and ignorance.
I’ll start with my own ignorance and the ignorance of other people. I emerged from the untreated
illness with fewer social skills than most people at my stage of life. Besides as I was a relative
pioneer in being effectively treated with medication, I also had the misfortune of encountering
treatment people who knew even less than I did about treated mental illness.
I decided to start Lithium Interchange, an early American organization for people with treated
bipolar illness and their relatives. Through the organization, I began to meet other people with the
illness (over a hundred of us in three years) and some of their relatives. Going public within a
group where we all accepted the need for confidentiality worked well for us. We got to the point
where we
even sponsored an information meeting at the public library.
At the time, bipolar was commonly known as manic-depressive disorder. After stabilizing, I
wanted to replace my label of M-D with the letters Ph. D. I entered graduate school, eventually
earning my degree in a field where jobs were scarcer than hen’s teeth. And by that time I was
fifty.
Meanwhile, my marriage was crumbling; I was disappointed that the organization members didn’t
help me much. I didn’t know an important social fact: understanding doesn’t need to come from a
majority. I should have appreciated the one person who understood.
I won’t go into all the hills and valleys of my life after earning my degree and finding the marriage
shattered. events that took place three weeks apart, except to say that eventually I made the
transition from my academic field to freelance writing, that began to make new friends and now I
have the pleasure of grandchildren.
Eight years ago, when my work was drying up, I decided to move to Mexico. I continue taking
my take medication regularly and see a doctor several times a year. Even after all this time, I still
have a healthy fear of suicidal depression and the unintended social suicide that can result from
hypomania.
I never dreamed, when the ups and downs started, that I would survive the steep hills and
valleys. My suffering with bipolar disorder hasn’t protected me from physically-based conditions
associated with getting older. But, to my occasional surprise, I’m alive!
~Rochelle Cashdan
I know the answer is yes, even though the cards were stacked against me. My illness started half
a century ago but was only recognized and treated thirty-five years ago, meaning terrible times in
those fifteen years in between.
By the time I had two children, I never expected to live to see them reach their teens. Even
though I had ordinary living between the peaks and valleys, my illness had worn me out.
My luck changed. Lithium carbonate was finally approved by the FDA, long after it had been
used effectively in Australia, Britain and Canada. My doctor, who had been diagnosing me as
neurotic, saw the light; I agreed to begin taking medication.
My new relative safety took me a long time to believe. Once I was stable again, I assumed that
since I had had more than my share of suffering, the rest of my life would be a piece of cake.
Well, by now I’m an expert on late-life learning. Yes, my illness was treated effectively, but
medication did not protect me from divorce, underemployment and ignorance.
I’ll start with my own ignorance and the ignorance of other people. I emerged from the untreated
illness with fewer social skills than most people at my stage of life. Besides as I was a relative
pioneer in being effectively treated with medication, I also had the misfortune of encountering
treatment people who knew even less than I did about treated mental illness.
I decided to start Lithium Interchange, an early American organization for people with treated
bipolar illness and their relatives. Through the organization, I began to meet other people with the
illness (over a hundred of us in three years) and some of their relatives. Going public within a
group where we all accepted the need for confidentiality worked well for us. We got to the point
where we
even sponsored an information meeting at the public library.
At the time, bipolar was commonly known as manic-depressive disorder. After stabilizing, I
wanted to replace my label of M-D with the letters Ph. D. I entered graduate school, eventually
earning my degree in a field where jobs were scarcer than hen’s teeth. And by that time I was
fifty.
Meanwhile, my marriage was crumbling; I was disappointed that the organization members didn’t
help me much. I didn’t know an important social fact: understanding doesn’t need to come from a
majority. I should have appreciated the one person who understood.
I won’t go into all the hills and valleys of my life after earning my degree and finding the marriage
shattered. events that took place three weeks apart, except to say that eventually I made the
transition from my academic field to freelance writing, that began to make new friends and now I
have the pleasure of grandchildren.
Eight years ago, when my work was drying up, I decided to move to Mexico. I continue taking
my take medication regularly and see a doctor several times a year. Even after all this time, I still
have a healthy fear of suicidal depression and the unintended social suicide that can result from
hypomania.
I never dreamed, when the ups and downs started, that I would survive the steep hills and
valleys. My suffering with bipolar disorder hasn’t protected me from physically-based conditions
associated with getting older. But, to my occasional surprise, I’m alive!
~Rochelle Cashdan
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