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Last night I went with a friend to hear David Fitzpatrick read from his memoir Sharp. The memoir details David's 20-year struggle with bipolar disorder and self-mutilation. His wife Amy spoke as well. I have not read the book but my friend has and she told me that while it is beautifully written it is also very difficult to read.
Amy spoke first. She said her only knowledge of mental illness before meeting David came from what she saw in television and in the movies. She started corresponding with David online and found him to be a kind and gentle soul and she fell in love. And his illness — he was recovered by then —faded into the background.
David got up to read. He read the prologue from Sharp, and then a passage near the end of the book when he was closer to recovery. He is a wonderful writer, his memoir is vivid and intense; his story was difficult for me to hear — which I didn’t expect. I wasn’t exactly triggered in the sense of the word, I didn’t have the urge to go home and cut.
His words brought me right back to the storm of my illness. It’s one thing when I’m writing about my own illness but I abruptly discovered that it’s another thing when I’m sitting in an audience listening with my head bowed, eyes closed, fighting back tears so my friend won’t see me cry. Right back to the chaos, the emptiness, the darkness and the pain.
Following the reading from Sharp, David read a speech titled Hope, Faith & The Power of The Broken. Again I listened intently and this time I couldn’t hold back the tears. As he came out of the mire of his illness and his self-destructiveness, David recounted that his family said to him I knew you would return.
I knew you would return. I searched my mind for those words and I came up empty. I recalled instead my mother telling me that when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and given six months to live she purchased two cemetery plots. One for her and one for me. I silently concluded that she didn’t expect me live a long life because she believed that I would eventually commit suicide.
I knew you would return. My tears fell because I wanted to believe that someone had believed in me. Looking back, I don’t think anyone did and that feels like a sword going through my gut.
That is what my patients need among other things. Someone to believe in them. Someone to say to them you are going to get through this, you are going to emerge stronger and more resilient, wiser and eagerly awaiting the challenges that life will bring you.
In therapy I make a point of using the word “we.” “We will get through this.” “We will work on this until it’s resolved.” One of the worst experiences of mental illness is the loneliness and isolation. When I work with a patient, if I can help alleviate that feeling even a little than I have realized a goal.
There are so many scenarios; it is impossible to give examples of them all, but for whatever reason sometimes a patient lacks a connection to family or friends. It’s essential that they feel they have an ally, someone who is on their side. The more alone they feel, the harder it will be for them to work towards recovery.
I knew you would return. The tears continue to fall. I didn’t realize until last night how much I longed to hear those words. How much I still desire to hear someone who knew me back then to say that they had faith in me and in my ability to walk out of the shadows. This is what I wanted to hear and now I will have to come to terms with the reality that the only way I will hear them is in a whisper. I knew you would return I whisper to myself.
