The Continuum of Consciousness; a Bipolar woman’s perspective on Delusions
The mysterious terrain of the unconscious mind fascinated and confused me even as a young child. The vividness of my nocturnal dreams seemed as lifelike to me as waking. I thought to myself, “Which is real?” It felt odd, and on some level still does, that the nightly slipping into the unconscious world is so little addressed in mainstream American culture. Our internal nocturnal dramas, even if remembered upon waking, are not generally subject to much scrutiny. It is true that a small minority of people keep a dream journal and think on this topic, but considering the strangeness of shift from waking consciousness and the nightly dream state, it is surprising that it is not more universally wondered at.
Every night we plunge into a new world of a sometimes unrecognizable cast of characters, to landscapes never visited, with often unexpected twists and unacknowledged morphing. There is, at least in my dreams, a blur between different story lines, hitches and quick shifts in plot. The plots are slippery, and even if remembered, hard to describe. Sometimes unconscious anxieties, hopeful ambitions, or our physical needs are played out in our dreams, but at other times the stories are seemingly totally unrelated to our daily life.
In the healthy mind, there is also the daydreaming state. Our mind can wander to unexpected places. We can drift into full length conversations, ruminate obsessively, or fantasize in ways that would embarrass us if made public. It is my experience of manic delusions that this part of the brain that functions in a non-linear, unexpected and disjointed way, is at work. Manic episodes are often accompanied by a disruption of normal sleep patterns. A healthy brain must sleep regularly. It strikes me that although a manic episode may appear totally foreign to the healthy observer, it is on a continuum of the human experience of different types of consciousness. A homeless man pawing through a pile of rubbish is externalizing publicly a full-fledged internally driven drama. His jumbled, incoherent ravings are a glimpse of what kind of soundtrack would accompany the average person’s nightly dream.
I am a bipolar woman who has experienced two extreme manic episodes. Although I have not been mentally ill for over 10 years, my healthy nightly dreams are notably weird. In speaking with others, this is not uncommon. Last night I was the “queen mother” to a bevy of people who I could not attach to anyone in my waking reality. (Also, what is a “queen mother”? This turns out to be also mysterious to the conscious me. I am an auntie to many, but mother to none in my “real” life.) In my dream, a young Arabic boy stole some toilet paper from two other young children, taunting the others as they chased him. Then when I took the toilet paper back, one of the boys who had been stolen from apologized for not giving the toilet paper to the young thief in the first place. He tearfully described having an alcoholic and miserly father thereby justifying his reticence to share. Then my dream shifted to finding a women’s restroom. Several women were on the prowl with me. We found a beautiful wooden door that indicated with the iconic image of a person in a skirt that it was for ladies. I graciously invited them to use it first. Yes. I had to pee immediately upon waking.
I have found manic delusions much like a sleeping dream. They are imbued with aspects of my real wakeful ethical hopes. And also like nocturnal dreaming, they have none of the natural cynicism of an adult conscious. My manic fantasies were childlike in their dramatic hopefulness. My delusions were overblown good and evil dramas. They were starkly black and white as our hero driven American cinema model. Hero and villain. There were no subtle grey nuances in my delusions. No seeing things from another perspective as I am inclined to do in my waking life. My manic delusions were a marriage of my true beliefs and a chemical imbalance that caused my dreaming to bleed into my waking reality. With my whole being during my manic episodes, I became convinced that there would be a magical revolution to alter the world in necessary and beneficial ways.
In my first manic episode, I believed that I would be instrumental in a revolution to redistribute wealth and slow down time. These fantasies were in part informed by conscious and real concerns. I was living in a low income building in downtown Oakland. My neighbors, tenants with frightfully tenuous financial situations, would periodically get evicted. I could see the real disparity between my poorer neighbors and the wealthy community where I was raised. I am precarious in many areas of my newly adult life. I had graduated into adulthood with all of its financial responsibilities shortly after having had a one year abroad program in Indonesia. Despite the poverty visible there, a common phrase in Indonesia is “Pelan pelan saja” translated as “Slowly, slowly only.” Cultural priorities were in sharp juxtaposition. American adult life was so much more pressured than the slower pace of Indonesian life in general. This was especially the case for me, an American expatriate student who was supported by my parents. I had no financial pressures.
After my return to California and on graduation with my degree in Anthropology, I was thrust into the world of the independent adult. This reality was made more extreme by the housing costs in the Bay Area which are some of the highest in the nation. The transition was brutal. My social science degree did not position me well for easily obtaining a high paying job. My bohemian inclinations were not well suited to my new reality. I balked against the demands of having a full time, tedious job that took me away from my genuine interest in doing my artwork. I watched people around me struggle, sometimes sleep deprived, trying to juggle the demands of daily life. The increasing prevalence of coffee chains and popularity of energy drinks, physical proof of a social reliance on artificial stimulation to maintain an unnaturally fast pace.
My second manic episode was mainly focused on my concerns around racism and sexual violence. Although I am a Caucasian women who has never been violently molested, I have observed and been distressed by these issues in my daily life.
My first episode was without any real reservation. The plots in my mind were so compelling, and I had no precursor to set the stage for doubt. During my second episode, I would fret about the potential for my delusions to be a return of an ill manic state, but I could not stop the torrent of very convincing hallucinations. As my nocturnal healthy sleeping became more irregular and infrequent, my manic delusions became more powerful, convincing and all consuming. Grandiose and romantic notions flooded my brain. I acted out my delusions in ways that horrify and embarrass me to replay. I walked the streets at night in my home town of Oakland, totally without fear. My beautiful city, known for its crime, by pure luck did not maim me. I acted out self-conceived rituals in public. Even during waking hours, I could not contain words. Pressured and emphatic, my internal thoughts escaped my lips.
Normalizing manic delusions by comparing them to healthy nightly dreams does not indicate that I don’t understand the dangers of living waking reality in a delusional manic state. Although a healthy adult must sleep every night, the average adult wakes to a consciousness that has an ability to process practical responsibilities. Paying my rent was not on my personal agenda during my crusade to end poverty or eliminate racism from the world with my cosmic rituals. Brushing my hair or attending to any practical personal obligations were completely irrelevant and seemingly unnecessary. My mind was occupied with what I believed to be more pressing and important tasks. I was saving the world!!!! My own physical safety was not on my mind. I was completely engulfed in my own reality. I have had the experience of losing my housing. I have considered jumping off a building, inclined to think I could fly. It is a wonder I did no physical damage to myself or others as my internal interpretation of events were so divorced from the laws that govern the waking world.
For the outside observer, the frightening aspect of mania is that an ill person completely severs from societal norms that are typically internalized by any adult. A mentally ill person is acting out whatever internal drama that is consuming them. Laws or socially appropriate behavior hold no meaning. There is absolutely no predicting behavior or action because it is not based on a shared understanding of the environment. This fear is understandable. The stigma for this kind of behavior is not surprising. It is uncomfortable to watch a stranger do and say things that are so out of chord with the rest of the waking world. It is traumatizing for family members and friends to witness behaviors that jeopardize a loved one’s safety and general well-being.
It is my belief that two factors are important in any real attempt to end mental health stigma. The stigma associated with the physical illness of cancer has shifted significantly in the last decade for these two reasons: increased understanding of the disease paired with increased odds of recovery. To empathize with the condition, some sort of personal reference can be helpful, but without any hope of recovery, this alone is not enough. It may increase understanding for the average healthy person if they make some connection to the manic experience by considering it’s similarity to the nocturnal dream state along with new insights on the brain from the medical community. But the kind of unpredictable behaviors associated with manic delusions are still scary. I avoid confrontation with mentally ill people I meet on the street. For loved ones, the situation can be unbearably painful even if understood. I have witnessed the struggle of family members and friends to protect and shelter their loved ones made so vulnerable by their delusional state. Although the taboo around mental health leads many in recovery to not share their story, it is also clear that many who suffer visibly from mental health challenges do not come back. We do not have a collective confidence that mental health challenges are temporary and treatable.
I am keenly aware of the cultural taboo around mental health. I have hidden my bipolar disorder in some aspects of my life either to protect my finances or my reputation. Although I no longer live in shame, I am realistic about the negative impact that divulging this information has on my livelihood and in my personal life. I do not announce my bipolar diagnosis as an initial conversation at work, or post it on my dating profile. I no longer experience my diagnosis as a central struggle, but living with a secret has an emotional toll. I wish for myself and others struggling with mental illness, to have the freedom to speak freely and get the help they need without stigma. Having a mental ailment is part of the range of human experience.
I think this shift can only occur when people have some way to understand mania and witness the regular recovery of people with serious mental illness. This is my motivation to share my story and review policies and programs in the county in which I live. I feel compelled to act with the unglamorous expertise I have developed in my own personal journey. I hope to work towards a society in which more people will live their lives to their full potential, and where I will be more comfortable to live my life in an open and whole way.
