Recently, I’ve been researching schizophrenia. One of my minor characters in my work-in-progress has this illness, hence the need to understand what is happening in her mind. So my Christmas reading list hasn’t been of the cheeriest sort.
I’ve noticed that there’s a hierarchy for mental illnesses for the general public. When people hear about “major depression”, they (often mistakenly) think they understand, and most, I believe, aren’t frightened by it.
Bipolar is below that: the mania distances the non-ill person from understanding, volatile mood swings—seemingly without reason—make others wary of being hurt, and no matter how under control things are, many would hesitate at, say, signing a business contract with an unproven bipolar author. (Ahem.)
Schizophrenia is below that.
Schizophrenia has a reputation. The words “devastating” and “frightening” seem to be the adjectives of choice for its description. There are no lists of “successful people with schizophrenia” as there are with major depression and bipolar disorder. Few associate hope or success or fulfillment with it; they associate psychosis and isolation and misery instead.
Enter Elyn Saks’ memoir The Center Cannot Hold.
Among other things, Saks is Oxford university graduate, Yale Law School graduate, endowed professor at University of Southern California Gould School of Law, happily married, and has close friends and good relationships with her colleagues.
Oh, by the way, she has schizophrenia. She spent time in a psychiatric hospital while at Oxford, dealt with numerous breakdowns and medication woes and terrifying thoughts while pursuing her law degree, and continues to battle the disease.
This is a wonderful, honest, and powerful memoir. One thing really stood out to me: she portrays and views herself as a person with an illness, not a person defined by an illness.
All too often, I read accounts of mentally ill people, and the illness isn’t just a big thing in their life, it’s the only thing that counts. It filters everything. To a certain extent, that’s true; a severe mental illness will filter how we see life. It certainly affects every aspect of our lives. It definitely has for me.
But for some people, the illness becomes their entire identity. Saks refuses to allow that to happen. She fights hard for autonomy, a sense of self apart from her illness.
“Who was I, at my core? Was I primarily a schizophrenic? Did that illness define me? Or was it an ‘accident’ of being—and only peripheral to me rather than the ‘essence’ of me? It’s been my observation that mentally ill people struggle with these questions perhaps even more than those with serious physical illnesses, because mental illness involves your mind and your core self as well. A woman with cancer isn’t Cancer Woman; a man with heart disease isn’t Diseased Heart Guy; a teenager with a broken leg isn’t The Broken Leg Kid. But if, as our society seems to suggest, good health was partly mind over matter, what hope did someone with a broken mind have?” (page 255)
After taking Zyprexa,
“my final and most profound resistance to the idea I was mentally ill began to give way. Ironically, the more I accepted I had a mental illness, the less the illness defined me” (page 304).
I’ve found that to be true for myself as well. I accepted my diagnosis quickly; it explained so many things from my past. I’ve also found that the more open I am about the illness, the less it defines me.
As a Christian, I define myself first with my relationship to Christ. The bipolar disorder is there. It mingles with all of my various identities—wife, mom, writer, Christian—and colors them, like a child scribbling with crayon in a book. The words on the page are still there, more or less readable depending on the intensity of the coloring, but the crayon marks change the way I read them.
It would be ridiculous to deny their presence.
It would be sad to define the page only by the crayon marks, as if that were nothing else on the page.
True, some words are obscured; others are blurred but legible. But they’re still there. I’m still a person, someone who God made and loves, and this illness doesn’t define me.
This memoir isn’t Saks’ attempt to wave pom-poms at psychiatric patients and cheer: if I can do it, you can too! Far from it. Not everyone can accomplish what she has in her life, and she acknowledges this.
But the book reminds us of this truth: no matter what illness–mental or otherwise–we might have, it does not define who we really are. We are so much more than a diagnosis. We are all humans, precious and valuable.
And that is worth cheering about.