ILAN CHAIM
ABOUT ME AND THE MEANIES
Part of the inspiration for The Flying Blue Meanies was my own struggle with the curious malady that used to be called “manic depression,” but has acquired the supposedly friendlier-sounding name “bipolar syndrome.” Back in the day of my own journey, the original term provoked an ongoing internal debate: Was it a manic form of depression, which was really the basic underlying ailment, and so depression was necessarily the focus of treatment, or something different and less ambiguous, an illness which switched at will between the two poles?
It took years to overcome the effects of mistaken diagnoses and reach an effective treatment, while feeling condemned to the simpler conclusion that I was crazy. Indeed, my behavior on the roller coaster of up and down cycles often seemed to justify that premature conclusion, which was accompanied by the stigma and fear that others would consider me crazy, too.
It has taken decades for the illness to lose its social stigma and to become socially acceptable in certain circles as to treat it normatively. Being bipolar is mentioned as casually as saying one is ADHD, or even has asthma or a peanut allergy. We who suffer from it know it is anything but casual.
Of course, another part of the story is the determination not to accept each setback as a function of being doomed, but to fight back – sometimes with dangerous results – as life continues on the plateaus between the poles. Finding love is impossible when one is down, and unsustainable when one is up, but in the calm between storms, there is a refuge, even an apparent option for a normal future. There the apparently endless free-falling torment at last ends in the arms of love, and a vision of a future family.
While the meanies are everywhere, they may be overcome by an optimistic perseverance in the right course of treatment, sustained by true loving.
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Israel's struggle for religious freedom in a Jewish theocracy
2 Like lemmings to the sea
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ABOUT ME AND THE MEANIES
Part of the inspiration for The Flying Blue Meanies was my own struggle with the curious malady that used to be called “manic depression,” but has acquired the supposedly friendlier-sounding name “bipolar syndrome.” Back in the day of my own journey, the original term provoked an ongoing internal debate: Was it a manic form of depression, which was really the basic underlying ailment, and so depression was necessarily the focus of treatment, or something different and less ambiguous, an illness which switched at will between the two poles?
It took years to overcome the effects of mistaken diagnoses and reach an effective treatment, while feeling condemned to the simpler conclusion that I was crazy. Indeed, my behavior on the roller coaster of up and down cycles often seemed to justify that premature conclusion, which was accompanied by the stigma and fear that others would consider me crazy, too.
It has taken decades for the illness to lose its social stigma and to become socially acceptable in certain circles as to treat it normatively. Being bipolar is mentioned as casually as saying one is ADHD, or even has asthma or a peanut allergy. We who suffer from it know it is anything but casual.
Of course, another part of the story is the determination not to accept each setback as a function of being doomed, but to fight back – sometimes with dangerous results – as life continues on the plateaus between the poles. Finding love is impossible when one is down, and unsustainable when one is up, but in the calm between storms, there is a refuge, even an apparent option for a normal future. There the apparently endless free-falling torment at last ends in the arms of love, and a vision of a future family.
While the meanies are everywhere, they may be overcome by an optimistic perseverance in the right course of treatment, sustained by true loving.
ABOUT ME AND THE MEANIES
Part of the inspiration for The Flying Blue Meanies was my own struggle with the curious malady that used to be called “manic depression,” but has acquired the supposedly friendlier-sounding name “bipolar syndrome.” Back in the day of my own journey, the original term provoked an ongoing internal debate: Was it a manic form of depression, which was really the basic underlying ailment, and so depression was necessarily the focus of treatment, or something different and less ambiguous, an illness which switched at will between the two poles?
It took years to overcome the effects of mistaken diagnoses and reach an effective treatment, while feeling condemned to the simpler conclusion that I was crazy. Indeed, my behavior on the roller coaster of up and down cycles often seemed to justify that premature conclusion, which was accompanied by the stigma and fear that others would consider me crazy, too.
It has taken decades for the illness to lose its social stigma and to become socially acceptable in certain circles as to treat it normatively. Being bipolar is mentioned as casually as saying one is ADHD, or even has asthma or a peanut allergy. We who suffer from it know it is anything but casual.
Of course, another part of the story is the determination not to accept each setback as a function of being doomed, but to fight back – sometimes with dangerous results – as life continues on the plateaus between the poles. Finding love is impossible when one is down, and unsustainable when one is up, but in the calm between storms, there is a refuge, even an apparent option for a normal future. There the apparently endless free-falling torment at last ends in the arms of love, and a vision of a future family.
While the meanies are everywhere, they may be overcome by an optimistic perseverance in the right course of treatment, sustained by true loving.