How to trigger yourself:

1. Have a really stressful, at times splendidly life-changing, at times unspeakably horrible, law school experience that leaves permanent scars. Struggle to find the right mix of chemicals and therapy that works for your slightly irregular brain.

2. While on continuing quest re your slightly irregular brain, spend three years trying to pass bar exam. Eventually find superb therapist and superb chemicals. At long last, pass exam. Wait over a month for good news to sink in and horrible self-talk to lighten up.

3. Watch already not-booming economy go completely kablooey. Scan want ads and law school career center websites for jobs that simply do not exist in your town. Try to maintain perspective. Freak out, cursing decisions you made years ago, about which not a whole lot can be done.

4. At the precise moment when you are finally coming to be at peace about the whole she-bang, and finally easing up on the self-flagellation, and finally learning to be constructively kind to yourself, read this book by a law professor about her harrowing struggle with schizophrenia.

I'd been looking forward to reading this book ever since I heard the author on On Point, and I would love to go through and do an in-depth review of it, something that would encourage others to go out and grab it, but I just can't go there and read it again. I knew from the first chapter that it was upsetting me, and I just couldn't quit. I was totally unprepared for how much we had in common.

I suppose I've always thought of myself as having some friendly, garden-variety type of mental illness. My diagnoses and treatments are fairly familiar and (I'd like to think) non-frightening to reasonably educated folks. When I really get going, anxiety-wise, the distortion in my thoughts probably approaches the level of delusion, but the thoughts at least originate from some basis in reality.

And I suppose I identify MIs that involve psychosis, which a therapist described to me once as a break with reality, as scarier than my own. If I may refer to The Prince of Tides: you can get your head around most of the Wingos, but sister Savannah, with her frightening visions and her razor blades, is a little out there. If I'm honest, it's almost like "I'm over here with my depression and my worrying, and those people over there, the muttering homeless, the people committed involuntarily, those who get prescribed things that aren't advertised in glossy magazines, are The Other." This shames me, as I like to think of myself as both pretty darned open-minded and pretty darned empathetic.

I was hoping Professor Saks would be able to make me understand what it's like to have The Other kind of mental illness, because I think of it as so very different from my own. And I guess what freaked me out is that it wasn't all that different. Not at all. Granted, I don't hear voices I'm not supposed to hear, and I don't think I've ever worried about having killed anyone with my thoughts, and okay, yes, at my most effed-up, I have thought about the s-word, but I've never felt uncontrollably, forcefully compelled to make any attempts. But the devastating, horrible self-talk she recounts? On page after page? That is me. That is totally me. And literally, days ago, it had started to let up, and then the book came in from interlibrary loan. That's not to say it's back in full force--I've gotten a lot better at redirecting my focus--but man, it was really disquieting to read.

There's one part where she recounts feeling utter terror at finding herself home alone, and I had an eerily similar incident when I was a kid. I visualize it at about age 8 but suspect I was even older. It was a Saturday afternoon, and it turned out that my parents and brother had just wandered over to the site of a house that was being built nearby. They probably weren't gone an hour. But when I couldn't find anyone anywhere, and both cars were still in the garage, I went completely apeshit. I called our nanny, who lived several towns over, I was so freaked, and she was so selfless that she dropped whatever she was doing and came.

Several times lately I've read--in Newsweek, in Malcolm Gladwell's Blink--about how desperate we are, as humans, perhaps particularly as American humans, to have explanations for inexplicable things. This is supposedly why so many rely on religion, or on less conventional supernatural tenets. We'd rather have an explanation that veers into the unprovable, even the whimsical, than no explanation at all.

And what's so scary about certain mental illnesses is that there is no why. My therapist would prefer I not delve into Why I'm Like This, because he's very focused on The Now, and on what I can change. But if you were to listen in on Christmas dinner at either of my parents', I think a few things would be fairly obvious. It wouldn't necessarily explain precisely why I'm this way, nor why my brother is comparatively even-keeled. But it likely would explain certain obsessions, certain thought patterns, certain well-worn paths of self-bashing, certain failures in self-care.

The fictional Savannah Wingo suffers terrible traumas at the hands of family members, society, and strangers. Her illness doesn't make sense, and yet it sort of does, because of those traumas. Professor Saks's illness frighteningly began to manifest when she was very young, but she is careful to emphasize the wholesome, loving family environment she grew up in, the fact that she wanted for nothing. Her illness doesn't make sense and likely never will. She writes powerfully about the facts of her life: Sometimes things just unravel. Sometimes the bottom drops out. Despite our best mythology and our best therapies, some things simply cannot be overcome, nor can they be explained. She will be on drugs for the rest of her life, no matter how hard she fights her illness.

I don't know if I will always be on stimulants and antidepressants. I've wanted to be off drugs pretty much ever since I got on them. This is probably due to the fact that when they were first prescribed--I was fourteen--the meds were presented to me not as a remedy for a sickness, but as a punishment for bad behavior. I have received mixed messages from my family ever since then: "Obey your elders and doctors and take the meds," but also, "Why can't you just [exercise] [diet] [socialize] [read] [bake] [12-step] [something] yourself free of it?!" And I've always been conflicted and guilty about how much of me is bonafide crazy, which would be somehow excusable, and how much is just lazy (the result of not fighting it hard enough). None of this worrying is particularly helpful, and I suspect that eventually, like the professor, I will come around to the point of view that dictates seeing mental illness like we see diabetes or other chronic disease, and that I am simply just taking my insulin.

Good Things (edit)

Before law school, in my capacity as an administrative muckety-muck at a stodgy private university on the South Side of Chicago, I used to have to email Professor Khalidi to schedule quarterly meetings for a committee my boss ran. Much as I hate his name being dragged through the mud, I find this connection incredibly amusing.

On my very first visit to the Gothic campus, a matter of blocks from where I lived, I was in my City Year uniform and had to demonstrate what they called "PT" by doing jiggly jumping jacks in front of wildly overprivileged undergrads.

Sometime after I had been hired, at a breakfast for University employees in student services, I was seated at Mrs. Obama's table and actually spoke with her. I said I had met her husband when he spoke to us at City Year. Since she ran community service programs, I asked if the school had an alternative break program, because that was something I had helped run at my much less tony undergrad school.

In the sad in-between period, after I had quit City Year but before I had found anything else to do, I called the Obama campaign office, looking for work. This was back when he was running for the Illinois Senate against former Black Panther Bobby Rush. In interviews, he describes the outcome as "getting spanked." The guy I spoke with asked me, logically enough, to tell him about myself. Somehow I got to the co-op house I lived in, and he asked me to explain that. All I needed to do was say that instead of paying rent to a traditional landlord, the residents effectively "owned" a share of the house.

That was pretty much what I did. Only instead of saying "a traditional landlord," I said "The Man."

I could easily have volunteered for the campaign, but I was so terribly embarrassed, I never called to follow up.

I have spent a lot of this campaign season kicking myself for not following up, for losing touch with my lawyer relative who was part of the Daley machine, and for ever having moved away from the place I loved so much, especially for something like law school.

Just before Election Day, on Halloween Friday, bar results were posted and I learned I had passed. I had spent the weeks beforehand trying to assure myself that I would be okay no matter what the outcome was, and occasionally taking the risk of imagining what it would be like to call people and give them good news.

Friday afternoon I left my poll-watching post at 3:15 and got home at 3:40. I started the computer, checked the mail, and wheeled the trash cart around to the back of our townhouse. A dear friend, my partner in Bar Exam Purgatory, was waiting on her State A results, which I knew would be up early. At 3:55 p.m., I learned she had passed. I took this as a good omen.

State B's results went up at precisely 4 p.m. but I had to wait until about 4:06, because I'd promised I'd wait until my husband got home. I clicked the link as soon as the door opened. When he came into the room, I clicked on my letter. And there I was. And it took me a long time to believe it. And to a certain extent, I still don't.

I got to make my happy phone calls, and it was better than I could have ever imagined. Then we went out to dinner.

Saturday I went a little insane. I had plans with my mom and grandmother and my husband wasn't coming. I got extremely upset, not about that particular evening being ruined, but more about the larger patterns. It was fairly miraculous that Spouse thought to come home early Friday, and knew to take me out that night; I should have focused on that instead. There are certain things that I have to let go of worrying about because I cannot change other people's behavior. I can only change my response to said behavior. I hadn't yet come to that conclusion, so Saturday and a lot of Sunday sucked.

And now? You'd think I'd be in some kind of wonderful happy haze but I'm not. I'm freaking out about finding work because lawyer jobs aren't advertised here. Isn't that great? It's hard enough submitting resumes and getting through interviews, but imagine trying to find work when you literally can't find the work. Seriously. The answer, of course, is NETWORKING! Wahhh.

Yesterday was my birth-control shot. My blood pressure is always taken beforehand, and I was expecting it to be lower after my good news, and it wasn't. That sucked.

Tomorrow is therapy and I know exactly what it's going to be about--my need to be willing to get my shit done even when I don't feel like it. That and what to do about meds, because Vyvanse Sucks Ass. Focalin gave me a tad too much energy but I feel completely sapped on Vyvanse, and it hasn't helped with the Evening Grumpies anyway.

What the fuck is my problem? Seriously! My guy actually won, and I passed the freaking bar exam! These are great, wonderful, amazing, life-changing things. What am I so afraid of? I'm supposed to be feeling invincible right now!

I have to remember that I have nothing to lose by calling people and asking for help, or by sending out resumes, or by looking all over the place for jobs, or by calling the few attorneys I have tenuous connections to and asking them where the hell the work is. I have nothing to lose but this lazy life I hate but have gotten comfortable in.

Now I am going to go call the clerk of court and arrange to get sworn in next week. And then I am going to call and make haircut appointments.

things I am weird about: the phone

You know how lots of voicemail systems allow you to play back your message, so you can hear every little "um," "like," and "you know"? Yeah. I had to learn to Just Freaking Hang Up unless it's a total flameout situation, like if I had to clear my throat while giving my phone number (or gave the home instead of the cell, or entirely forgot to give one at all).

I'm supposed to check in with my therapist on weekdays by leaving him a message, and his voicemail cuts you off at three minutes. There was one day I filled it all the way up twice, erasing it twice, before realizing: it's my therapist, he's already well aware I'm crazy, and he'll deal. And then I filled it up a final time, and hung up when I was done.

The last time I had a real job, I was constantly having to genuflect and supplicate to people on the phone, because I needed information they had, a client was entitled to something it was their job to provide, or because I needed guidance from my boss, who worked in a different city.

I am horrible at the phone, even on my best day. I am unsure of myself, my high voice makes me sound like a five year-old, I stammer and trip over my own tongue, and if I catch the slightest hint of "no" in someone's tone, I get thrown off and discouraged. This is a sad combination of factors anyway, but it is fatal if your job success hinges on your ability to phone a complete stranger, explain a sad situation, and persuade the stranger to do something about it. If your target ass-hauler perceives, via super-sensitive ass-hauler antennae, the slightest possibility that no ass must be hauled, no comfortable thumb disturbed, if only you can be eased or forced off the phone, that is precisely the outcome you can expect. In other words: To get anyone to haul ass, you have to make it abundantly clear that you will not hang up unless or until you get what you need.

I was an utter failure at getting anyone to haul ass, and I developed a huge complex about making phone calls. Eventually, unless I was ordering pizza, I couldn't dial the phone without making out a list of exactly what information I needed, doodling a checkbox next to each point. I would spend half an hour formulating these lists in what I thought was the most logical order, to make for the most efficient call possible, preparing for every conceivable question, with rebuttals for every possible "no." I would work myself into such a lather worrying about each call that it would take three tries to dial the damn phone. And of course the conversation never went like I wanted it to anyway.

My Boss's in-box was Where Email Goes to Die, I learned too late, and there was nothing I could do about it. I would spend hours carefully composing emails, designed to be answerable merely by typing a "Y" or "N," and couldn't even get those answered. Important concerns would sit until they could wait no longer, and I'd frantically place a call to Boss, who'd dispense whatever wisdom I needed to hear, usually in reproachful, calm-down tones. I got the distinct impression I was being a bother every time I called. I began to dread calling Boss more than calling strangers. I would hurry, hurry, hurry to get off the phone as quickly as possible without pissing Boss off, hang up, sigh with relief, and then realize I'd forgotten something essential from my list. Necessitating another call. Crap. I said "Crap!" so often in that job it became my signature catchphrase.

Maybe I should go straight to letters or faxes and leave the phone to those able to speak in short sentences. I am amazingly talented at leaving the type of message that no one wants to return. When I call attorneys trying to network, they don't call me back, and I'm too chicken to call them again. Not only did I suck at advocating for other people, I can't even do it for myself.

Here's another example. I last saw my primary-care doctor in early September. He wrote me a prescription for Retin-A after I pointed out the dark spots on my face from the huge cysts I got while I was studying. I waited about a week, until I needed refills on other things, and then I dropped off the slip at my pharmacy. When I got home from running errands, the pharmacy had already left a message: under our insurance, I needed prior authorization to get my skin goop. They'd already faxed a form to my doctor's office but I should call to make sure it got there.

So I call the doctor's office and everything sounds fine. They promise to call me once the form is signed and sent off wherever it needs to go. So I wait. I put myself through major stress worrying about ever getting a job, and my face explodes like it hasn't done since before the exam. I wonder if the problem is that I saw the doc on a good skin day. I pick at everything. I get huge, dark scabs, one smack in the middle of my nose. I cry when I see myself in the bathroom mirror. I call the doctor's office again. And again. And again.

More than a month after I submitted the prescription for the gorram skin goop, I call the doctor's office for the fifth time. The nice lady (they're always pleasant and patient with me) says they've just received the paperwork from InsCo, and they'll fax it to the pharmacy once my doc signs it, and they'll call me when all this is accomplished. Yay. I hang up.

Wait a minute. What about the paperwork the pharmacy originally faxed over? Like, weeks ago, back when I originally tried to fill the prescription? Did it never get there at all? Was that not the right paperwork? I don't know. If I needed this medication to breathe or something, I'd be in serious trouble.

I called the pharmacy to find out how much it would cost out-of-pocket just to be done with it already, and it turns out I'll save about $35 if I wait for the paperwork to go through. So I am stuck. I'm 31 years old, I suck at the phone, and I still have giant, honking acne.