Last year, a small ill kitten showed up at my front steps without a home in the middle of winter. Being allergic to cats I tried to chase him off of my porch, but he persisted to visit. The more often he visited, the more he reminded me of the homelessness that I had experienced years ago as a result of my illness, Schizoaffective Disorder. Twice in my life I was homeless for extensive periods and in need of help. I am aware of the suffering and humiliation that this can cause, therefore I felt it would not be right to allow him to suffer. Eventually, I took him in and gave him the name “Mr. Giggles”.

Last night, I attended an amazing "Legislative Social" hosted by our local NAMI Fairfield (CT) affiliate.  What an evening of possibility, of hope. Thanks to the efforts of this strong NAMI chapter and its members, about a dozen state legislators and an audience of over 100  were there to hear about Supportive Housing, Young Adult Services, School-based Services, and Mental/Medical Community Health Services. There were presentations and stories from successful programs such as Bridge House (International Clubhouse Model, in Bridgeport CT),  Yale's Integrated Care Partners Project,  supported housing programs, YAS (young adult services) and a new initiative for School Based Health Centers in Connecticut.

Much of the information you'll read about teen dating violence awareness this month focuses on girls and young women. If the boys and young men are mentioned, it will probably be on a page designed to help them change. As the mother of two teenaged young men (Marc and Eddie) and a survivor of domestic abuse, I feel compelled to share my perspective.

ADHD runs in families.  It is a genetic disorder and a family affair.  If you are an adult with ADHD, it is highly likely that another relative of yours will have ADHD.  For many adults, this other someone is a grandchild.

There is a persistent myth that having bipolar disorder means you have a “broken identity,” or even, “split personality.” I would imagine the term “manic depression” (an older term for bipolar disorder) conjures up these images for some people. But I’m here to tell you, my identity is just fine as is my personality.

Because I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at a very young age, a whopping twelve years old, I have a hard time remembering a life before the diagnosis—before I was told, “Natalie, you have Bipolar Disorder.” The only thing I understood was that I missed the Halloween dance at school; that I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. But I remember being a little girl. A little girl who did not take medication. I remember long nights when I could not sleep; even longer days when I was crazed and manic. I recall my mother’s eyes, frightened, and my father's hands hugging me, telling me to calm down. That I would be okay. I can visualize in flashes my siblings; younger than I. Talking to them from the hospital. But it ends there. Life after the diagnosis has captured the rest of my life. At the age of twenty-six, the word ‘after’ lingers.

In years past, I was a yes person. Whenever I was asked to take on a new project, help contribute to something, be part of an event, I would say yes without thinking. I had no idea there was any issue in this. This seemed in stark contrast to early addiction recovery. When in early sobriety, I was able to take care of me, and make things simple. I knew what I needed to do, whether it was to go to meetings, see my therapist, get enough sleep, not go out on weekends, surround myself by supportive people, etc.

On Friday, my psychiatrist told me that a fellow eating disorders patient recently died. To say I was stunned would be an understatement.

In The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis wrote There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. Sometimes religious people can fall into the latter category, seeing demons behind every coffee cup--especially when it comes to demons of mental illness in general and borderline personality disorder (BPD) in particular.

Let's pull out the good old thesaurus to attempt to define a feeling that is so prominent when you are diagnosed with mental illness: > Singleness >Alienation >Isolation Now, I usually pepper these definitions with a large amount of sarcasm because, usually, they are bloody ridiculous. Having said this, the above definitions make sense on my end. Mental Illness has alienated me, isolated me, and made me feel singular--not the same as others. That's what I want to explore in this blog: mental illness can make us feel terribly lonely and in order to recover we need to work to understand that while mental illness can make us feel isolated, we can move past it. Mental Illness is a Lonely Disease