Paper
Personal accounts: I did not lose my mind, but my brain had stopped working.
Published Feb 1, 2013 · Meg Hutchinson
Psychiatric services
0
Citations
0
Influential Citations
Abstract
W done a fundamental disservice to the treatment and acceptance of illnesses of the brain by calling them illnesses of the mind. Toward the end of the 19th century we began to refer to these “afflictions” as mental disorders. Although the term “psychiatric” has more recently been favored in clinical settings, the word “mental” stuck. It stuck in our popular culture, it stuck in our treatment models, and it stuck in how those of us living with these disorders still identify ourselves. The word “mental” is defined as “of or relating to the mind” and “carried out by or taking place in the mind” and “relating to or suffering from disorders or illnesses of the mind.” These descriptions are a minefield for possible misinterpretation, evident in cultural references. Consider the phrases “sheʼs lost her mind” or “heʼs mental.” The message is that mental illness is a disorder of the mind, and the phrase “carried out by or taking place in the mind” adds a disturbing dimension, as if the mind were producing the disorder. And when somethingʼs all in the mind, itʼs assumed to be somehow less real. The implication is that people with mental illness have created these illnesses, that their experience is not real, and that their minds are diseased. I have bipolar disorder type I. I experienced my first major depressive episode at age 19, and for nine years after that I struggled privately through almost annual bouts of depression. As the years progressed, the highs between depressive episodes also increased. By 2006, at age 28 I had a full breakdown characterized by a mixed state of mania and depression plus acute insomnia. This lasted for six weeks, and I was hospitalized three times. My breakdown began on the heels of a music tour in Europe. I was drinking heavily, and the change in time zone combined with a chaotic performance schedule and limited sleep induced a bout of hypomania. After I returned home, that high energy changed to agitation, and a thick fog encroached on my brain. I lost control of my ability to process and synthesize information. My thoughts began to cycle very rapidly, and I was unable to control these loops of negative ideation. I could no longer sleep for even an hour or make decisions. I began to get lost driving in my neighborhood. I needed to prepare for another trip but stared blankly at my suitcase, having no idea how to pack. In a healthy brain all the subtle calculations happen automatically, but I could no longer weigh the factors. What season was it? What temperature would it be? How many clothes do you wear during two weeks? How long is two weeks? Is one shirt better than another? How does one arrange clothes into a suitcase? My clothes were dirty, but I couldnʼt figure out how the washing machine worked. What did those knobs do, and which way should I turn them? This is how those days unraveled. I had to write down what time Iʼd fed the dog because ten minutes later I would have no idea whether I had. But part of me remained a horrified witness to what was unfolding in my brain. Even when I had lost my grip on reality in many respects, I was having moments of clarity about what was no longer functioning correctly. Years later, when I read Jill Bolte Taylorʼs account of having a massive stroke, I found her descriptions very familiar. As a brain scientist she had an intellectual level of awareness of what was occurring as she lost much of the functioning of her left brain during the event. Likewise, I was often acutely aware of my inability to process information or make decisions. During my hospitalization, the social workers and staff who spoke to the witness part of me had a profound effect on my wish to recover. One social worker told me a story of his near-death experience in a motorcycle accident and his awareness of his consciousness separating from his body. This story resonated deeply with what I was experiencing—there seemed to be a thread of consciousness much stronger and older than the current illness that gripped me. I began to say to the staff, “Can we practice having a normal conversation?” The more someone spoke to the witness part of me, the more that consciousness in me was strengthened. Sometimes I would be overcome with sadness at the disparity between my consciousness of the situation and my brainʼs total inability to function. I remember standing in front of a microwave oven and having no idea how to open it. I kept trying to interpret the symbols on the outside panel, but they were impenetrable. I pushed all of them, and nothing happened. Only later did I realize that I simply had to pull the handle. I was completely Ms. Hutchinson (meg@meghutchinson. com) is an award-winning songwriter and recording artist on Red House Records and tours widely in North America and Europe. She is a mental health advocate and speaks about recovery at conferences, schools, and hospitals. She lives in Boston. Jeffrey L. Geller, M.D., M.P.H., is editor of this column.
Mental illness is not a disorder of the mind, but rather a dysfunction of the brain, affecting individuals' ability to process and synthesize information, making decisions, and causing confusion.
Full text analysis coming soon...