Preface: This unfinished post was written in late January 2010. Rather than continue to let it languish unpublished, it's my belief that sharing this unfinished entry is preferable to otherwise probably never having this firsthand experience of an a recovering dually-diagnosed addict, come to the fore. We *do* recover. Namaste'
Living with any sort of mental illness is no picnic, regardless of the condition(s). Popular culture, despite claims and efforts to the contrary, appears to find perverse gratification in exploiting the infirmities of others. Mainstream media (MSM) is the most obvious perpetrator, eager to publicize stories which amplify negative stereotypes. Unfortunately, shock value generates revenue, plus no shortage of armchair critics.
It would be too easy to launch into a full-blown tirade along the lines of "how dare you," but to what effect? Doing so would invariably give more ammunition to those who least deserve it. Therefore, this writer's intent is simply to offer some experience, strength and hope.
Disclaimer: I am not a mental health or medical professional, nor am I a certified drug addictions counselor. Anyone seeking professional assistance with such issues is urged to consult their local accredited practitioners within these fields, thanks.
My indoctrination into the mental health industry came at age eight. No specifics will be offered, but I will take this opportunity to indirectly thank an old friend for founding the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). As a child, my initial diagnosis was good old-fashioned clinical depression. I didn't start using drugs until I was 12. Back then kids weren't recognized as possibly having BPD, and the diagnosis of PTSD was only assigned to war veterans.
There is a growing body of research which strongly suggests that early childhood trauma may be linked to the development of bipolar disorder. Then comes the typical pattern of self-medication in an attempt to regulate the mood swings inherent with BPD, or to stifle the PTSD in some manner, or both. It certainly didn't help matters that I was already genetically predisposed to become an addict.
Hell hath many suburbs. Mental illness is one of them. So is addiction. When these neighborhoods overlap, treacherous war zones abound, leaving no one unscathed.
I self-medicated for several decades, with a few periodic interruptions when one mental health practitioner or another would deem me: 1) a threat to myself; 2) a threat to others; and 3) in need of inpatient treatment. Lovely. I became an FDA lab rat for Nortriptyline at age 13, forced to take 1000mg doses, which at that time was the maximum suggested for adults. It is important to note that as an adolescent I still hadn't even been properly diagnosed.
There were a few stretches of abstinence from self-medication. A few were during various spiritual "field trips" where I experienced temporary zeal for one religion or another. There were also a couple of 12-step recovery test runs. The recovery was genuine, but so was my still undiagnosed BPD. Both recovery test runs lasted over a year each, and provided enough of the valuable experiences necessary to make me want to return.
My last (and hopefully final) tour of active addiction led me to pursue more potent drugs, and in steadily increasing quantities than ever before. It was a deadly cycle perpetuated between an organically skewed neurochemistry, additional external chemicals ingested, and deep psychological illness. Add to this nightmare the concept of spiritual bankruptcy. If Hell's suburbs recognized democracy, the severity of each disease component might have qualified as a voting district within this individual. The item under consideration was whether or not to keep living, and if so, in what manner?
In late 1994, I began to realize that self-medicating was no longer working. One can only trash their dopamine receptors for so long before there's a major gray matter rebellion. For me this manifested in completely reckless, irresponsible, and frequently dangerous behaviors. This was partly because I clutched fiercely to denial of the depths to which I'd sunk, but mostly I'd all but lost hope that my life could ever become manageable again. At that point "getting better" wasn't an aspiration; it was a foolish fantasy.
Relief came in a roundabout way in late January of 1995. My behaviors finally caught up with me, leading to an arrest. My trial didn't happen until late May. Part of the conditions of my pre-trial release mandated that I be enrolled in a court designated outpatient addictions treatment program. I'd already resumed 12-step participation on my own before this legal condition was issued, but 12-step alone was viewed as insufficient by the court system.
By this time my distrust of the mental health industry had reached epic proportions, and with good reason.
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