No one can Walk this Path Alone.

No one can walk this path alone. Regardless, of what our personal beliefs are, we gather in one spirit to light our paths. We come to the Supreme Creator of all persons with open hearts, open minds and good intentions. May all present here be blessed, guided, sustained, and protected. May our needs both individually and collectively be met. When darkness falls, may we find the light to guide our way. May we find the strength to carry our burdens with dignity and grace, and if the burden prove to be too much, to be blessed with loving hearts and hands to help lessen our loads. When we feel most frightened and alone may we receive gentle reminders that we are not alone, may we remember these candles, each member of this group, and be reminded that we are not alone. May we find joy, love, light, laughter, comfort, peace and sanctity in our interactions with others, and with one another and most especially with those near and dear to our hearts; and may this group and each member be blessed in numerous and immeasurable ways. May we endeavour to trust, support, protect and continually love each other and may we find the grace to forgive one another in moments of anger, despair, when things are not going according to plan, when one of us is trying to adjust to a crisis or a difficult situation.  Remember always the fragility of the human psyche and the enduring strength of the human spirit. I wish you love, fortitude, gratitude, and grace. As a Christian, I end my prayer in Jesus name. Amen.

 Lynn-Marie.

Danish philosopher and theologian Soren Kierkegaard wisely said: “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” Many years later I read a maxim by Oscar Wilde “The final mystery is oneself.” It is a mystery why you and I have been afflicted with this troubling disease (bipolar depression). Perhaps, you too, once asked yourself “Why me and not the other members of our families?”  Perhaps, you also felt that it was some sort of a curse, or a punishment for past sins. In the beginning, when I had lost my mind completely for the first time in June of 1989, I felt what seemed to be an inner battle for both my soul and my mind. I felt, tasted and breathed a fear that I had never known before. I felt such shame in accepting the fact that I was “troubled in mind.” I felt certain that I had a broken brain as well as a broken heart. I did not know where to turn with that pain and for the better part of my life, I internalized it.

            There was then, and sadly still is, such a stigma attached to mental illness. I had the feeling that everyone was looking at me differently and strangers would know that I was “different.” I believed that people would treat me differently if they knew. Perhaps they would love and respect me less. I could not talk about it. I would not talk about it.

 I did not know what had happened to me, or why, but I could not forget the experience. The only thing I knew for certain was that none of my family, not my husband, or our children, our families or our friends, as much as they loved and supported me, could possibly know nor understand what I was going through. They recognized that something was seriously wrong with me. Hell, I knew something was wrong with me. But they did not know how to help me and their immediate response seemed to be “She’s broken, fix her.”

            None of them could feel my pain, share my shame, or touch my fear. Embracing that fear was the most difficult thing for me to do. I was not certain if it was my own fear, or the fear that I read in so many other peoples’ faces strangers and loved ones that bothered me more.

For the first time in my life, I surrendered completely to God who I desperately needed to take control of my situation and my life. I needed help to endure this trial. I had to trust that He would see me through. I had never felt closer to God than I did when I first became ill. It seemed that He was the only person who really heard me. It was the second time in my life that I became acutely aware of His presence, the first was when my mother had tried to kill herself when I was nineteen years old and I had found her sprawled on the upstairs hall floor in October of 1976 after she had overdosed on a bottle of sleeping pills. But this was the first time that I personally trusted God enough to help me personally. Perhaps that was part of the problem; I could not completely TRUST anyone.

            I recognized that I had fallen apart like Humpty Dumpty and wondered if I would ever gather the fragments of my former self together and be normal again. The truth is that I am not normal, I never was, and I knew it. But how does society define normal? We are all wounded and broken in various ways and to different degrees.

            Ernest Hemingway had written about being “strong at the broken places” and others have said that there are within each of us wounds that only God may touch. Mine was a wound, or a succession of wounds, so deep, I myself, did not know the depth of that pain. We also hurt and we heal by various degrees. Several years later, after my open heart surgery at aged thirty eight to repair a hole in my heart, my friend and ex-teacher Angie told me that sometimes the healing process hurts far more than the original wound. And she was right. This is a truth which can be applied to spiritual, psychological and emotional wounds as well. They are long painful healing processes that do not occur overnight.

            Our lives circumstances and our personalities make us very different people. We each have our individual coping mechanisms. I do not know you and you do not know me, but I share your pain-I know it well. I have been where you are now and lived with my disorder for many years. Every day is a constant struggle when you are mentally ill.

            Galileo had said “We cannot teach a man anything, we can only help him to discover it within himself.” What helped me may not necessarily help you. The drugs that worked for me may not work for you. It will take years of various medications and a long succession of doctors until you find the proper combination that works best for you.

            The first step in my own recovery was learning all that I could about this disease. It helped that my husband Ian was willing to learn all he could about it too, in an effort to understand what I was going through and what he should expect.

I then learned to accept it. Knowing that it is incurable, hereditary but that it could be controlled, gave me the hope and reassurance that I would not be lost in this darkness forever.

I then found a doctor whom I felt comfortable with and finally a medication that worked for me. This process did not happen overnight. It took me over nine years and three more psychotic breakdowns before it was under control. In the meantime, I deepened my spiritually and strengthened my relationships with my loved ones and with God. I read numerous books that helped me, one in particular by a psychiatrist Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison who is herself, bipolar since the age of seventeen. Her book “An Unquiet Mind” totally changed my life and gave me the courage to go back to school part-time in September 2002 to work on my English Literature degree.

            When reading the epilogue of Jamison’s book, I cried uncontrollably because for the first time since developing this disorder, someone described precisely how I felt and what I experienced with brutal honesty and raw emotion. She spoke as a patient and a fellow traveler on a long and arduous journey rather than as a doctor using medical jargon that I may or may not understand. Her approach was emphatic and compassionate rather than cold and clinical. She spoke from human experience rather than from a clinical perspective. She shared the pilgrimage with me and knew the darkness, both the highs and the lows. She did not let her illness define her, and from then on, neither would I.

            I too, had several things in my favour. I have a huge loving and supportive family including my in-laws, good friends and intense faith in a higher power and a strong sense of humour. Sadly, as I witnessed for myself during my hospitalizations, many patients, coping with mental illness do not have these blessings.

            Please understand that although most of my family does accept that I have this disorder not everyone in my family and not all of my friends understand nor want to understand this illness. Many of them view it as a character flaw, a weakness, or a blemish on the family history. Many do not want to deal with the issue and therefore, will not talk about it. In many cases, I think it is because it frightens them and the possibility that it could happen to any one of them; or to future generations is an abject reality they simply cannot or will not face. T. S. Eliot had said, “Human kind cannot bear very much reality” and he was right.

            If I had cancer, heart disease or any other physical disease they would be far more tolerant and understanding, but mental illness is generally viewed as a psychological disorder and the biological component is seldom addressed. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain which a drug helps regulate. If not for my medication, I would not be able to function as normally as I do.

 I love to read, to write, to reflect and to record these reflections in my journals. I enjoy long walks and being with my loved ones, especially the intimate candlelight dinners with my husband, and dancing with him until the wee hours of the morning. I love movies and popcorn, cooking various culinary dishes from different countries, good food, good company and good conversation. I love the sanctity and peace I feel in my home and being with my husband, my family and my friends.

            I have learned to love life and to count my blessings. I have learned to enjoy the moments. But most importantly, I have learned to embrace the pain, feel the full weight of it and then let it go. I have allowed myself the freedom to love and to allow myself to be loved in return. I have, since embarking on this journey, found a sense of purpose in my life, and as strangely as it sounds for having developed this disorder, a gratitude for having become a more compassionate, loving and tolerant human being because of it.

            Bipolar depression is part of who I am, but I do not let it control me. Life wounds all of us and the scars forever remain. Although I have learned to accept and to control my illness, I also learned to view the world and myself through very different eyes. I have changed my perceptions regarding many things. 

I can recommend various books to help you toward better spiritual, mental and emotional health. Books have always been my closest companions. They are friends, teachers, and guides. I do not know you, but I shall hold you in my heart, in my thoughts and always in my prayers.

Lynn-Marie Ramjass

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In honour of Tracey Lynn Barfield who passed away Friday January 10, 2014 at 8 pm EST in South Carolina, For those family and friends who may be unaware, I founded a public page regarding Living with Bipolar Disorder in April of 2012. In June of that same year, Tracey Lynn joined me in helping manage a closed group where people could come and discuss their experiences whether they had the disorder themselves, or lived with, or knew someone who did privately. There were countless occasions where we literally talked people off of that ledge, understanding their struggle and flatly refused to leave anyone dangling when they were in crisis, often to the detriment of our own health.  We understood that pain, that shame and that guilt. We with bipolar disorder understood the stigma related to mental illness, the fear, the loneliness, the loss of one`s identity. We bled for them, ached for them, reached out to them and are eternally grateful for those who grasped our hands, followed that light and came out of the darkness and accepted our support and our experiences.  And so they come and continue to come from the four corners of the globe daily.

The page started slowly and then it gradually began to grow, as others began to faithfully follow us on the public page (over 2,600 fans in August of 2013; today January 11, 2014 it has grown to over 3,300 followers and we have reached over 16, 000 persons this last week since her death) Our private group (398 members in August of 2013 is now as of January 11, 2014, there are 808 members). Tracey Lynn Barfield and my vision for this project has given meaning to our pain and immeasurable value to our lives, as we are aware of the many souls whose lives have been touched, altered, and inspired by our efforts and the many persons who touched us so profoundly too. Tracey’s developing posts with our logo, her hours of research posting articles on the public page and especially her interacting with our fans and members of our closed group brought such strength, inspiration, hope, encouragement and especially unconditional love and acceptance to countless persons. I am eternally grateful for the privilege of having known, loved and befriended her. All who knew her were blessed that she had crossed paths with them.

It staggers the imagination to know that we, ordinary women who once dreamed of travelling the globe, but could not find the means, through these pages, have travelled to countries and taken up residence in the hearts, minds, and homes of thousands of persons we have never met. These countries include: U.S.A ( the number one country with the most fans), U.K. Australia, Canada, India, Philippines, Pakistan, South Africa, Brazil, Egypt, Iran, Turkey, Tunisia, Indonesia, Thailand, Ireland, Netherlands, Malaysia, Sweden, Scotland, Wales, New Zealand, Romania, Germany, Puerto Rico, Singapore, France, Italy, Portugal, Mexico, Kenya, Japan, Argentina, Saudi Arabia, Spain, Bangladesh, Lebanon, Israel, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Greece, Luxembourg, Norway, Tanzania, Costa Rica, Jordan and Syria.

 It had humbled us to know that our voices are heard, our light is shone, our strength is gathered, our hope inspired, our faith, our experiences, our humanity is shared; as is an unconditional love and respect for all as human beings, with no discrimination. All persons are welcome living with this disorder. I cannot put into words the loss of Tracey means to me personally as I am still reeling from the shock of her sudden death. But I wanted her family to know at least a portion of the lives she has touched and that she was an angel to many long before her death. God has now made it official and brought her home to paradise. The comments regarding the news of her death are coming in regularly in our group and she is dearly loved and surely missed.

I have some major decisions to make regarding the group and public page and unsure as to how to continue without her. We had been unable to talk personally for some time. I miss the conversations on the phone, the sound of her voice, her southern drawl, her sense of humour, her warmth, her intelligence, her unabashed honesty. She would not want me to close the group too many people are dependent on it. Please pray for me too. But want I want to point out on this blog was her incredible writing skills and her work as an educator. We shared a passion for literature, a deep and abiding faith in God, a love for our mental health advocacy to educate and eradicate the stigma attached to mental illness and the interactions with the many persons we have met and come to know and love through our endeavours. I will commit myself to sharing more of the writings she shared with us this last year in group and our public page. 

  Lynn-Marie Ramjass

Process Journal: Final Narrative

What is a Final Narrative? Scholar Mark Edmundson in his book Why Read?  cites Richard Rorty as stating that a final narrative “involves the ultimate set of terms that we use to confer value on experience. It’s where our principles are manifest”[1] Edmundson suggests “Get to your students’ Final Narratives, and your own; seek out the defining beliefs. Uncover central convictions about politics, love, money, the good life. It’s there that, as Socrates knew, real thinking starts.”[2]  

Years ago, in philosophy class, I fell in love with Socrates. One of the things he taught was “the unexamined life was not worth living.”  There are times when I need to pray, to read and to reflect. What do I value most?

I value my family, my friends, my faith, and my health. I value the many lessons these many loves have taught me. They taught me to stand my ground and to not give up, especially when things are most painful. They taught me that love does not end just because two people quarrel, or when one of them must leave the relationship. They taught me that love is worth fighting for, and sometimes worth dying for. I value those loves who have both entered and exited my life, and the time and the courage it took for them to love me as much as they could, for as long as they did, or still do. I value most those who had the courage and the fortitude to battle my demons with me, who in the words of Winston Churchill “never gave up, who never backed down, and who never surrendered.” Churchill battled his own “black dog.” It was a term he used to describe his chronic bouts of depression.

I have known people who have made me feel greatly loved, deeply respected and genuinely admired. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the pain of some of the wrong choices that I have made along the way, the people I have hurt, and the people who have hurt me, whether intentionally or unintentionally. And I will awake from sleep to find that I had been crying. Though unable to recall my dreams, I am filled with a profound sense of sadness and a longing in my heart for something lost; something I deeply regret, something I dearly valued.

 There are times I experience a spiritual dryness, ‘wilderness periods’ in my prayer life. There are times I struggle with prayer and I find it difficult to pray. There are times I forget to, or how to, pray. There are times I have questioned my faith, my sanity, my beliefs and my values

But given my experience, my overarching answer to the question “what do I value most?” Presently, it would have to be “my mind.” For having lost it numerous times, to think of losing it completely is unbearable –say to Alzheimer’s disease-or something else that would not allow me to remember the people, places, ideals and objects I value most in the first place.

My greatest fear was losing my sanity completely if my husband should die before me, and being with people who did not know, love, or understand me. I pictured myself homeless, living in a cardboard box and howling at the moon. Or institutionalized, locked in a room indefinitely, banging on a door that no one would open. I learned from being in the darkest regions of hell, only when it is black enough I would see the stars.

 The darkest period of my life however, was NOT when I lost my sanity, but when my grandmother lay dying four years ago. It was the relationship I shared with her that I valued most. I feared losing her would be too much for me. It was she who taught me the value of faith, family, and friendships.  She instilled in me an abiding love for quiet prayer and contemplation. She taught me to pray, to live and ultimately to die with courage, faith, and grace. She was my grandmother and my best friend. It was because of her I want to be a teacher and a writer or both. It was because of her that I am in university now at this moment.

I feared her death would be the death of me. I feared remaining in that very dark place because I would not be able to bear her loss. But whilst she lay dying, we talked openly and honestly about her imminent death because we knew we had limited time in which to do so, and we were both grateful for the opportunity, as some people are not given that chance, or they are given the chance but are too afraid to take it. I urged her to forgive my grandfather his transgressions, as she had remained angry with him for sixty years.

I never mentioned my fears of possibly having another psychotic episode, instead, I sat alone beside her, both of us praying the rosary together, and contemplating the issues, persons, and things we valued most in our lives. We talked about what we meant to each other and our deepest regrets.

As the days passed (it took her three months to die) I experienced a miraculous internal transformation. For I had found a peace and courage I had never known before. Often, I would sense and feel the presence of angels, saints, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, our departed loved ones, our living relatives and friends when we were praying. I felt their presence and their love. It was this faith that sustained me, and gave me the courage and strength to endure her death with grace, fortitude and love.

 If I listened carefully, I could almost hear my loved ones prayers mingle with my own, and then softly drift above me. I could almost feel the tips of the angels’ wings as they brushed softly past me. Some people may think that I was hallucinating given my illness; others may feel that I imagined it. Some people may mistakenly believe I was weak because I had been hospitalized four times in a psychiatric ward long before her death. But I found the courage, strength, and tenacity to write and to calmly deliver my grandmother’s eulogy. I was able to do this only because of my personal experiences, strong values and intricate beliefs concerning my religion, my faith and my family. I knew in my heart that “Those remembered never die.” And my grandmother was always with me, in my heart, in my spirit and in my mind. I was no longer afraid of the future and I was far less inhibited by the past.

It was my grandmother who instilled a passion for books in me. Throughout my life since I was a little girl and I first learned to read, books have been my closest companions. I did not make friends easily and therefore books became my teachers, friends, and guides. I love the way they feel, the way they look, and the way they smell. I love the sound each page makes as I turn it.  Books take me to different cultures, different time periods, and to different worlds. They reveal so much about the authors themselves. There are books and then there are GREAT books. A great book grabs hold of me right from the start, and maintains my interest until its final chapter. A great book will make me laugh, cry, and feel the depth of the emotion of its characters. The book will stir something in me and make me tingle from the tips of my fingers, to the bottom of my toes. It makes me shudder and sigh simultaneously, and leaves a lasting impression upon me like a great dinner, a good bottle of wine or a satisfying orgasm. The end of a great book is like the end of a great concert, it leaves me wanting more.  Books have taught me so much about humanity and the need to believe in something outside of myself. Books have strengthened, sustained, and guided me through years of psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual torment. At times they have been balm on an ever gaping wound.

Many books have changed my life. They have often taught me the power of the human spirit and the true meaning of love, friendship and humility. Ultimately, I believe that we are here to love and serve a Higher Power, whatever we imagine that to be and to love and to serve one another. We serve one another by being kind with our thoughts, our words, and our actions. We share the love through the generosity of our spirits, our gifts, our time, and our experiences. It is my hope to help and serve the mentally ill and to give them hope, the hope that they will not always dwell in darkness.

 Since developing bipolar depression the Bible, Kay Redfield Jamison’s “An Unquiet Mind” and “Touched with Fire,” Scott Peck’s “The Road Less Traveled” and “People of the Lie,” and Thomas Moore’s “Care of the Soul” have become some of my favorites. Like great teachers they have both taught and inspired me. These books completely transformed my life.

Thomas Moore, an ex-Jesuit priest writes “We become persons through dangerous experiences of darkness. We can survive these difficult initiations. Any real initiation is always a movement from death to life.” This was how I felt when released from the psychiatric ward the last time. I felt as though I was reborn. Moore wrote “we are who we are as much because of our gaps and failures as because of our strengths.”

In reading his book, I discovered that I am a soulful person. Moore describes a soulful person as “complicated, multifaceted, and shaped by pain and pleasure, success and failure.” He argued “the uniqueness of a person is made up of the insane and the twisted as much as it is of the rational and the normal.” 

His book helped me re-evaluate my bouts with depression and madness. I was able to face the grotesque images and dark experiences. I was able to view the world with very different eyes. He inspired me with words like “When the divine shines through ordinary life, it may well appear as madness and we as God’s fools.” The writers and artists, teachers and prophets whom I love and value best, are those whose brains were either already mucked up like mine, or someone shattered with a bullet because their art, their words, their music, their political aspirations, or their religious convictions were different, and they dared to speak their minds. At this stage in my life, my key values are: my connection to and appreciation of those I love who fill me with a sense of purpose, the tenacity and clarity of my mind to read, appreciate and treasure the books that guide and inspire me along an arduous and often dangerous journey; an abiding faith, love and belief in a Higher Power and my family, and lastly, a sense of interconnection to a world, a family, and a person whom I may at times, not recognize, nor understand.

Lynn-Marie Ramjass

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[1] Mark Edmundson. Why Read? (New York: Bloomsbury Publishing 2004) 25.

[2] P.28.

Lynn-Marie’s Speech Regarding Living with Bipolar Disorder I

“And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin

Try to imagine a loved one, someone you love more than anyone in this world, being suddenly pushed off a cliff and spiraling out of control into unimaginable darkness and terror without a parachute. Imagine walking a tight rope every day of your life without a safety net. Now imagine that someone is you. Every day is a struggle when you are mentally ill.

As an advocate for the mentally ill, I would like to quote American Poet E.E. Cummings who wrote, “We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”

I have volunteered to be a speaker in this program firstly, to honour those who have made me feel valuable, loved and genuinely admired and to those who have given me the hope and the courage to believe in myself. Those who have taught me the power of true love and the strength of spirit to soar toward aspirations I had never before imagined. Those persons include my family, my friends and countless mentally ill patients whom I have met both in and out of the psychiatric ward.

I am here with a message of hope and inspiration for those struggling with mental illness and their loved ones. The message being that the mentally ill do not always have to dwell in darkness, or forever fear living in a cardboard box and hollering at the moon.

I am here because this program provides hope to those struggling with mental illness.

I am here mainly because as a teenager I found my mother after she had attempted suicide while her five children sat downstairs in the living room watching television.

 For too many years, our family internalized our pain and we never spoke about our personal problems or our feelings. I suffered in silence because of the stigma attached to mental illness and talking about it was not cool in our family. I was incredibly shy. I hated crowds of people and every week for twelve long years, I fainted while at Mass, shopping malls, anywhere strangers were gathered in large groups. That was because I had a dark secret that I could not share with anybody.

I want to tell you my story because if in its telling I can help a single person, it may give my life a sense of purpose and provide meaning to that pain.  As a young girl and during my early twenties, I was frequently depressed and moody. But I dismissed this due to a dysfunctional family upbringing. I thought it was normal to feel this way. Even in joy, I would feel pain. I knew that happiness was temporary and when I was younger, I did not believe that I deserved to be happy. I was afraid to love, afraid to trust, afraid to push past the pain and come out of the shadows.

I was the student who sat at the back of the class, who seldom spoke, who remained aloof, distant and withdrawn. I was the student who few noticed, others considered weird and anti-social. I was the student who was never asked to the high school prom, but rather went with her cousin. I did not feel attractive or desirable.  And if I loved you, I certainly could not tell you because I was afraid that you would not love me back.

            I had friends, girls I had known throughout elementary school and high school, friends I walked to and from school with, who I attended parties and clubs with, but they did not really know me. I seldom spoke unless you spoke to me first and even then, I had little to say. For them it was awkward, for me it was terrifying. I would not let anyone penetrate the walls I built in order to protect myself, but in time, I learned that the walls did not protect as much as they isolate.

I never discussed my family problems. I could not identify my feelings let alone express them. I held everything inside. And on the night of my mother’s attempted suicide I did not call anyone to help me share my pain. How could I call my mother’s parents or her siblings and tell them what she had done?  I handled that nightmare alone and the fear haunted me for the better part of my life. I sat alone in the emergency room awaiting word on my mother lonely and afraid. I was afraid that she would die and I suspected that she may be mentally ill as she was always depressed. It was not until fourteen years later when I learned that she had unipolar depression and could not help herself without proper medication and professional treatment. My mother had no one to talk to, she had no close friends and she was not close to her family back then.

I could never tell anyone about my secret, about my being molested several times by several different men as a child and later a teenager until I was eighteen years old, when in a moment of anger I blurted it out to my mother, who sat in apparent shock and disbelief. She and my father said and did nothing. We dealt with it, just as we had all of the other traumas in our lives, including mom’s attempt to end her own life, we did not talk about it, as if not talking about it, if in not acknowledging it, we could fool ourselves into believing it did not happen. I was expected to forget the past and move on. I felt damaged, dirty, different, ashamed and broken. All I could see were my flaws and if that were all that I could see, I imagined that that was what others would see too.

Then one day, my husband Ian whom I have been married to for thirty four years happened into my life. Love found me, as it always does when I was not looking for it. It was not easy to overcome my fears and trust him enough to let him in. I told him everything that had ever happened to me, the things that I had not shared with another human being.

 Our life together has not been easy. As I developed bipolar depression eleven years into our marriage, but he has stood in the fire with me and not shrunk back. He has walked paths with me and stood by me when most men would have run in the opposite direction.

When I was thirty two years old, my brain began to suddenly malfunction. I could not sleep and had been awake for three full days. I ate very little. For one full day, I ate only bread and drank water. My thoughts began racing like a tape recorder on fast forward. I had so much energy I could not sit still. I was hallucinating and had felt more fear than I had ever known in my life. On other occasions I was absolutely fearless and delusional. I was losing my mind and I was acutely aware of it.

Bipolar disorder is not easy to live with. It cannot be cured but it can be controlled with the proper medication and knowledgeable compassionate mental health professionals whom I have been fortunate to finally find. It has been a long difficult journey, but so worth the effort. Nothing worth keeping ever comes effortlessly.  

            I had to quit my job driving school and transit buses and not tell anyone what had happened to me. At the time, I could not talk about it. For six long years I had no idea what had happened to me or why, it took that long for doctors to properly diagnose me. It affected my relationships with my family and my friends. I lost one very close friendship due to my extreme mood swings. My best friend (a social worker) could not handle the roller coaster ride we endured on a daily basis. She told me once that she had to deal with people like me all day in her job and did not need it in her personal life too. Needless to say, that hurt me more than I can possibly describe, but in time, I understood why she had to sever the tie between us. I am grateful for her friendship, for the lessons she taught me and the love she shared with me for as long as it lasted. She is a huge part of why I am here today and I cannot deny that.

            Some of my family members do not wish to discuss my illness or learn about it. This use to hurt me a lot, but I learned not to take it personally and to understand that it is most likely the fear that they themselves could possibly develop some form of mental illness themselves one day which prevents them from facing the darkness and overcoming their fears.

I have learned to embrace the pain and then let it go. I have learned through reading many books on the topic, one in particular “An Unquiet Mind” by Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison that totally transformed my life. Having the disorder herself since she was seventeen, this psychiatrist biographical account of her own life inspired me to go back to school and I am currently working on my English Literature degree at Trent University’s Oshawa Campus. I had worked doing various jobs throughout the years since my recovery including driving school buses. The Ministry of Transportation and the company I worked for were both aware of my disorder. So long as I take my medication regularly and monitor my stress level, I lead a normal life. I have learned to not dwell on the darkness and the pain.

            I have spoken publicly in front of hundreds of people on this subject and will continue to do so for the remainder of my life. I volunteer both with COPE Mental Health Program and now with TAMI through the Canadian Mental Health Association in order to give back to my community and to hopefully inspire others not to be afraid.

“Two men looked out from prison bars, one saw mud and the other saw stars.” If nothing else, I want you to learn about perception, what you focus your attention on is exactly what you will attract into your life.

 Once upon a time, all I focused on was the mud and eventually I learned that when it is dark enough, you will see the stars, for that is when they shine their brightest. Don’t focus on the dark, focus on the light.

 Make your life account for something and learn to make a difference. Every experience no matter how brief the encounter, good or bad, it is a learning experience. I have learned that God does not make mistakes and everything happens for a reason. I lost my best friend, my grandparents and my mother in quick succession, and thought I would never heal from the blows, but God blessed me with three granddaughters who fill that void and bring me more joy than I ever imagined.

Many of us with mental illnesses, we are stronger than we know, look what we have had to endure, and yet we are still here, still coping, still moving upwards and onwards. Those who do not know or want to know you, it is their loss. Pity them and not you!!! Be strong, be proud and be brave. Have the courage to go out on a limb, for as Hugo said that is where the best fruit is.

Meeting God in Living with Bipolar

By Lynn-Marie Ramjass on Sunday, July 7, 2013 at 11:56am

Do you ever pray continuously regarding a particular person or situation and your prayers seemingly remain unanswered? I had read that if you trust in God, He would give you the desires of your heart. But what if your heart’s desire is not what is best for you? If it is not what He wants for you? What if the result of your prayers, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, is a resounding “No”?  Do you give up and stop believing and trusting in God? Do you abandon your faith because you did not get what you wanted when you wanted it? Should a child get whatever they wanted when they want it? Should a parent always give a child what they want, or better to give them what they need? Though a parent myself, I had never given much thought to that before.

After years of praying that a relationship be restored (I read in Scripture, “It is not a sorrow like that for death itself when a dear friend turns into an enemy” Sirach 37:2) or that a painful situation would change, like my bipolar disorder miraculously disappearing or scientists find a cure.  I wondered “Are you really there? Don’t you know how much this hurts? How could an omnipotent, omniscient God, if He does exist leave me in such despair and dire straits?

               I had read that “As long as there is life there is hope” but the reverse is also true. “As long as there is hope there is life.” “Time heals all wounds” they said. No, it does not, the pain may lessen over time, but some wounds never completely heal, and like it or not, they leave scars.

Then one day, I happened to open my e-mail and in my inbox was the title “Interview with God.”  It caught my attention, as I was questioning my faith, and experiencing a wilderness period in my prayer life. “Interesting title” I thought to myself, as I opened the email and began to read. “God is asked, “As a parent what are some of life’s lessons you want your children to learn?” God replied with a smile, “To learn that they cannot make anyone love them. What they can do is let themselves be loved. (I previously struggled with this one. I could not understand why anyone would love me. I would not let them in and those who tried, I repeatedly would push them away) to learn that what is most valuable is not what they have in their lives but who they have in their lives.  To learn that it only takes a few seconds to open profound wounds in those we love, and it takes many years to heal them, to learn forgiveness by practising forgiveness. To learn that a true friend is one who knows everything about them, but loves them anyway. To learn that it is not always enough that they be forgiven by others, but that they have to forgive themselves (This had been another major problem for me in the past) People may forget what you said, they may forget what you did, but people will never forget the way you made them feel. “

 Sometimes no, many times, I took what people said and did and attached meaning to them that was not really intended. My sensitivity often got in the way, and over time, I realized that I had been my own worst enemy. I could not control my emotions. There were as one woman once commented “more layers on you than an onion.” It was the fear of being rejected that held me back. The fear of risking my heart, trusting and sharing a piece of my soul with others that kept me in limbo for far too many years.

 I have known people who have enriched my life on a daily basis. People who make a difference in both a positive and negative way, those who challenged me, encouraged me, inspired me, accepted me, loved me and believed in me, even when I was unable to feel this way about myself.  People who have loved, supported, nurtured and guided me were also those who stood by me during the best and the worst of times. With childhood depravation in terms of emotional, psychological and spiritual neglect and a severe fear of abandonment, it took me years to accept their love and stop questioning their motives. I realized that I was worthy and others appreciated and valued me. The problem was my learning to accept, to appreciate, to forgive, to value and most especially to love myself.

Sorrow has been compared to fruit. Victor Hugo wrote:  “God does not plant it upon limbs too weak to bear it.”  I came across a beautiful Jewish proverb that read:  “Thou art great, we are small. Thou art sovereign and we are weak. Thou art infinite and we are finite. Thou art eternal, and we tarry but a little while, but with all Thy greatness and all Thy power. Thou dost bend down low and listen to the sound of our tears as they strike the ground.” It comforts me to know that God counts all of my tears. He knows my heart, my mind and my soul. He knows what is best for me. He is always present, especially when those moments arise when I feel that He has hidden His face, or turned His back on me.

 Often in the past, I have been enveloped by sadness unable to see my way clear. Held back by the weight of my grief, overwhelmed by the pain of the choices I made, or refused to make, and the people I had hurt, and those who had hurt me. I could not or would not let it go. I did not know how. It was something I had to learn: to learn to love, to live, and to forgive.

 When the bipolar struck and I was confined to the darkest regions of hell and submitted to the care of strangers, in a ward of a hospital that was unlike any other I visited before. Whilst there the first time in June of 1989, I recall so much of scripture and running through my brain and the verse, “All things work together for good for those who loved God and who are called according to His purpose.” Romans 8:28 stood out most.  I loved God. I was raised Roman Catholic. I believed in angels and admired the saints. I loved Jesus and all he taught and preached. I asked myself, repeatedly, “What good could possibly come of my being psychotic and stuck in the confines of a psychiatric ward?”

Would my husband stand by me through this trial? Would my children still love and respect me? Or would they and other members of our family and our friends be ashamed of me and my illness? Do I hide the fact that I have this disorder and live in shame? Would I be that mad woman in the attic whom nobody wanted to talk about, or visit, or care to be associated with anymore? Should I be angry and rail at God because I have had to live with this Bipolar Disorder? Is it His fault? Do I blame my ancestors who passed this gene onto me through our gene pool? Where do I go with such anger? Whom do I blame? Is it a curse, or a blessing? At first, as most of us do, I asked aloud, what sin had I committed to deserve this? Then again remembering Scripture and the same question being asked regarding someone severely disabled, Christ’s response, “Neither this man or his parents sinned” said Jesus, “this has happened so the power of God might be seen in him.” John 9:3

During my stay, I began to think that as painful as it was, if I trusted in this Higher Power, this entity the world called God and truly surrendered myself to His will, I would not only find meaning in this pain, but would find a purpose for my life and serve others because of it. I came to the realization rather quickly that I was precisely where God intended me to be. As painful as it was, I was fulfilling a part of a plan, that at the time I was unable to see, but knew in my heart had to happen. I never dreamed that I would one day speak in front of audiences publicly regarding mental health, or open websites and support groups. But in looking back, it was all part of a plan God had for me.

During the first episode it was a frightening experience for everyone. Some people insisted it was a nervous breakdown, some claimed I had temporal seizures, some perhaps too shamed to face the possibility that I may be mentally ill, others implied I was possessed. At one point, I felt I was partially possessed, as my mind, heart and spirit fought continuously for my soul. I had to decide then and there to stay in that darkness or follow that light that I knew still existed in me.

 I recall in my heart opening the door and inwardly calling out to Jesus to help me through the ordeal. Then a strange thing happened. The fear immediately left me, and I felt such a calming indescribable presence, like a blanket placed about me, a warmth from head to toe permeated my body, and as though being carried up and out of the darkness. It was at that moment I met God and was acutely aware of His presence.  Was this “the peace which passes understanding” that I had read so much about in the bible?” From then on, I relied on that faith and that presence when sorrows and fear knocked on my door. I realized through all my traumatic experiences throughout my life that calming presence had been there, but I had not been as acutely aware of it before then. Previously, I was too busy focusing on the darkness and the fear.

That my friends, is my experience and why I do believe in God, I share it with you as it has such a profound impact on my life with bipolar disorder. There are many who will relate to this, and others who choose to reject it. I am not trying to convince or convert anyone. It is my personal relationship and experience.

Lynn-Marie