The Journey Home: My Journey to Find Peace of Mind and Heart While Fighting a War Against Bi-Polar Disorder

By Lori-ellen Pisani

Lori-ellen Pisani lives with a powerful enemy inside her brain. At times, Lori-ellen soars to the heights of mania. She's highly creative and a multi-tasker. Then a trigger such as an argument will send her into a suicidal depression. Having been undiagnosed until her early thirties and working as a teacher, if anyone were to find out, her career would be in serious jeopardy. Bipolar Disorder is very often misunderstood, and therefore perceived as a threat by the parents who have entrusted their children to her care. She takes you on her journey to learn the identity of this enemy and to declare a secret war to save her life. Each chapter brings the reader along her experiences as she battles: abandonment, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, divorce, and cancer. Readers will relate to Lori-ellen's words, and hopefully find the strength to wage war against mental illness and begin their own journey towards victory - peace of mind and heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781977223326

Lori-ellen Pisani

Follow Lori-ellen as she soars from the exciting, energetic pinnacle of mania to the crash of depression, as she shares the realities of managing highs and lows, and as she shares hope for her future. With generosity and compassion, Lori-ellen demonstrates that although a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder is a life sentence, it's not a death sentence. The beauty, grace, and wisdom of Lori-ellen's world will deepen your understanding of Bipolar Disorder and give you hope.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Philippians 4:13 – I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I put my faith in this Bible verse when I am challenged. It gives me courage. I need courage to write my story in a way that will help those who share my struggle to fight daily battles against bipolar disorder. It is the story of a fight; more like a war, with daily battles of will against a powerful enemy that has the capacity to overtake even the strongest of soldiers. My story does not have an ending, for it continues to unfold as long as I continue to live.

I never considered myself to be strong, but over the years, I have learned how to fight. Years of therapy and an effective medication protocol have provided me with the strength I need to wage war on a daily basis. There is no permanent victory, since there is no cure. And, to this day, there are times when the enemy grows stronger than I. Although this war will never be won, I now have the necessary resources and reinforcements to fight alongside me, and I’m still standing. For that, I am blessed and grateful beyond all comparable measure.

Battling bipolar disorder is not a war that one enlists to fight voluntarily. I was conscripted by inheritance. My father and sister suffer(ed) from it, although their diagnoses would come years after mine. I suspect there are more family members who have not recognized that they too have this illness, and my attempts to help them have failed.

I was the first to recognize something was seriously wrong inside my brain and that I needed help, or I would not survive. I had no one to talk to in the family about my fears and concerns. They were not safe people I could share my fears and thoughts with, for it was they whom I believed had put me in this position of helplessness and hopelessness, fear, rage, and deep pain as a child.

Bipolar disorder is characterized by severe mood swings, from the highest of highs (mania-the feeling of euphoria to a degree, the ability to manage many tasks simultaneously, a burst of creativity, energy and/or impulsive actions such as spending money without regard for the consequences) to the lowest of lows (severe depression, with suicidal thoughts or actions).

The goal is to maintain a truce between the two extremes. It is quite the challenge. A word, action, or situation can trigger me into fits of rage (hypomania) or suicidal depression. It’s a spectrum disorder in that one size does not fit all. I do not experience mania as others might. I do not spend money recklessly or paint my house wild colors on a whim. My mania is experienced by bursts of creative energy and the ability to manage many tasks simultaneously. My depression however, is suicidal depression. That is a slow walk through hell, which I would never wish on another human being. I also suffer from hypomania that brings with it incredible rage. And then there are the mixed states when I am raging and depressed simultaneously. I have successfully waged my war against this illness thus far. But make no mistake, it is a war. The enemy is bipolar disorder; the victory is living a life with meaning and purpose and finding peace of mind and heart.

The very first battle is to find competent doctors to diagnose and treat this illness as early as possible. It is a complicated diagnosis and takes time to identify through treatment with a psychiatrist and psychotherapist who work together for your benefit. One can remain in a state of depression or mania for several years at a time, which makes an accurate diagnosis that much more difficult. After almost a year of treatment for clinical depression, my doctors suspected that I was bipolar in December 1996. I wasn’t formally diagnosed as bipolar until February 1997. I was thirty-four years old. It takes a thorough evaluation to accurately diagnose this disorder. My correct diagnosis was a result of therapy sessions with Dr. Martin Mintz, who realized I was suffering from more than depression and referred me to his colleague, Dr. Itamar Salamon, who further evaluated me and confirmed the diagnosis.

I knew something was wrong from an early age, but relied on my faith in God to see me through the crisis periods. My faith was shaken and abandoned over the years, leaving me alone to battle against depression, rage, and mania the best way I could. It was utter desperation that led to my entering into the therapy process and subsequently, my journey.

I count my blessings that I have found the right doctors who, to this day, help me fight to survive. It may sound overly dramatic to say that this is a fight for my life. However, bipolar disorder is a serious illness, and it can take your life or your freedom if you are not vigilant about treatment and medication protocol. I learned that the hard way.

It is a lifetime journey. The worst part of it was that for so many years, I did not know what was wrong with me until I found the professional help needed to put a name to the nightmare I was living. As a child, I attributed my feelings as the consequences of how I was treated within the family. Every action they took had a reaction from me. I didn’t know enough to realize that this exchange could have lasting, cumulative effects. Growing up, I lived in the moment, taking each situation as it came, and praying to God for help. I lived life in this way for decades.

I entered formal therapy in 1994, at age thirty-one. I dabbled a bit in counseling as a senior undergraduate student when I found myself huddled in the corner of my bed, unable to move, but that experience was not formal therapy but career counseling. During that time, I used prayer as my means to fight what had yet to be identified.

As my story unfolds, there came a need to enter formal, long-term therapy. I was separated from my husband, and living on my own for the first time in my life. When I told my parents that I was going into therapy, my father was quick to tell me that therapy was only for crazy people. I explained that I disagreed and planned to seek treatment. From that point on, I was labeled as weak, unstable, and misguided. I was the last to know when issues affected family members. Information regarding their situations was withheld from me because I was too unstable to handle it. Don’t tell Lori-ellen, it will make her freak out, I heard my sister say.

This attitude did not help me much, but nonetheless I continued my journey. I knew from a very early age that education was my ticket out of the nightmare of living with the people I held responsible for my pain and misery, and so I pursued it with a vengeance. I proceeded to obtain a master’s degree, sixty credits beyond my master’s in education, a doctoral degree in modern psychoanalysis and psychotherapy, and certification as a school administrator and supervisor from New York State.

With each graduation, my status within the family grew. They no longer believed therapy was only for the weak, and that I was unable to cope with stress or family issues. I was the only child to graduate from higher education. My siblings left college for their own reasons. I would like to think that it was my perseverance and determination that changed their perceptions of me. What I do know is that once I completed my doctoral degree, my family’s perception of my abilities and strengths changed dramatically. I was no longer weak in their eyes, but competent, and successful. They put aside their feelings about therapy and medication as they saw me thrive and succeed.

In November 1997, my parents moved to Florida. I became the matriarch of the family in New York. If there was a problem, the family said, Call Lori-ellen for help. I think it an incredible change from the place I held in the family as a child growing up. You will witness this transformation as my journey unfolds.

The path I traveled was one filled with sinkholes and obstacles. The sinkholes represent the deepest, darkest thoughts of suicide, and the obstacles were the hills (which felt like mountains) I climbed to keep fighting this illness without succumbing to it.

Perhaps you are reading this book because you too suffer from this illness or have a loved one or friend who does. If so, I urge you or anyone around you who is suffering to seek treatment and be faithful to it. Therapy appointments and medication regimes will become a part of your life. You must come to accept these intrusions--for that is what they seem at times--as necessary for your survival. Without treatment, your chances are slim with respect to leading a successful life. I experienced this first hand.

To my family – if my descriptions of you or the accounts I have written offend or hurt you, I sincerely apologize, but that is as far as I will go. I will not placate you or revise what I have written for your comfort. I spent too many years placating and subjugating myself to you in the hope that I would be accepted, wanted, important, and loved. My memories of you are mine, and they are real. You may forcefully disagree with what I have written. I accept and respect that your memories and perceptions may be quite different from mine. We are individuals who have our own unique ways of assimilating the world and events into our consciousness. I will, however, vehemently defend what I have written. The words on these pages express how I saw you as a child, who was vulnerable and desperately wanted and needed your love and acceptance.

This book is not retribution; it is an effort to put on paper what I remember and how it affected my life. My goal is to release my brain and heart from the pain I’ve lived with for so many years. Therapy was and is a huge help, but for me, I needed more. It isn’t enough for me to share my story with a few confidants. I have a need to share my struggles with those, like me, who struggle with this illness, or have a loved one who is battling this powerful enemy. Perhaps my story can inspire someone to keep up the fight.

I have come to a place in my life where if my family decides, upon reading this book, that they no longer want or need me in their lives, I can accept it and move forward. I pray that is not the case, but nonetheless it may be the outcome.

It is also important for me to note that I have changed many names to protect people from retribution by others in their lives. Only first names, for the most part, are used for the sake of simplicity. Recitations of conversations had between the characters in this book are certainly not verbatim, but my recollections of their content is to the best of my ability. Key words and phrases that came to mind when remembering the events, settings, and context were the impetus for these verbal exchanges.

My goal in writing this book is not to hurt, but to heal myself and offer hope to those suffering from the affliction of mental illness. My actions, in some cases, did hurt both others and myself. I offer my sincere apologies to those whom I have hurt by mistakes made out of misperceptions of my needs and how to meet them. I take full responsibility for everything I have done in my life and make no excuses. There are reasons, but there is never an excuse to hurt another human being.

I cannot, in all honesty, tell you that this story has a happy ending. Happiness is a fleeting emotion for me, as is peace of mind and heart. Yet I continue to strive, or fight, for these. Peace of mind and heart is the ultimate goal – one that I have not yet achieved but have hope that it will come. I wrote The Journey Home in 2010. I was forty-seven years old, and looking forward to retirement in the year 2020. I continue to live alone in homes in New York and North Carolina, and pray that I will retire to my North Carolina home in peace. The Journey Home started as just a poem written during a dark time in my life. It now provides me with the inspiration and motivation to fight my fight on a daily basis, find the courage to keep fighting when I am in pain and deeply depressed, and win some major battles along the way.

And that is the purpose of my story--to inspire hope in all those who read it or can relate to it in any way, to urge you to declare war on mental illness, and to use every available means to win your battles.

CHAPTER 1

THE JOURNEY HOME

Hello my friend,

I can see you,

Standing alone and frightened on the path that leads to my past

The sight of you brings back many memories

You are alone and shivering, yet it is warm

Your eyes are open wide, recording all that surrounds you

Your arms are wrapped tightly around you,

protecting your fragile heart

Your lips quiver as you struggle to cry out

I have heard your silent cries and have come back for you

I knew you would be waiting for me

I had much to do before I returned to travel this path once again

You are safe within my care

I am now grown and strong. I’ve learned how to shield us from harm

Take my hand, little one, and we will journey home together

But first we must travel the path back in time to say goodbye

Fear not, for I am with you and will lead the way

Lori-ellen Pisani

THIS IS THE first poem I’ve ever written. I sat at my kitchen table in my first apartment as a newly single woman, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and thinking about my life. The year was 1994. I was thirty-one years old, in the midst of a nasty divorce and bankrupt as a result. I was employed as a school secretary after losing my career as an elementary school teacher, and wondering why I was put on this earth only to live a life of pain. I was in a deep depression, the suicidal kind.

It was late at night, and I couldn’t sleep no matter how hard I tried. As I lay in bed, I listened to a book on tape as a means of distraction. It was what I always did to clear my mind before going to sleep. Usually I couldn’t get through side A of the cassette, as the reader’s voice sent me into a deep sleep. This night however, it didn’t work. No matter how hard I tried to focus on the story, my mind raced back to feelings and memories of helplessness, loss, and hopelessness for a brighter future. I attributed my feelings to the events surrounding my divorce proceedings and could see no way out of the mess I was in.

I was living alone for the first time in my life. There was no one to share my feelings with, lean on in times of need, keep me company, and experience intimacy with. My marriage was not entered into as two people sharing life’s experiences, but my co-dependence on another as I strived to escape my house of pain and the people who made my life miserable. Now, I was truly alone and terrified at the thought of having sole responsibility for my life. I didn’t think I was capable of managing even the smallest of chores like putting gas in my car or paying the bills on time. That was my husband’s job. What would I do if my car broke down? He took care of that, too. What if I was fired? Who would support me? Would I be alone for the rest of my life? Was life even worth living anymore? At that point, I wasn’t so sure.

My simple life as a married woman was at an end. I was, for all intents and purposes, a child in an adult body; unable to fend for myself without the aid of another, feeling abandoned and rejected. I knew these feelings well; they were my constant companions growing up. Fear, helplessness and hopelessness were back in my life again and were very powerful emotions. I was terrified by my own thoughts. I wanted desperately not to feel anything--to escape the pain that was clutching at my heart and confusing my brain. I could think of only one way out, and it would mean the loss of my life.

The hours ticked by, and when no relief came, I got up and went to sit at my kitchen table. On the table was a yellow writing pad and pen left there from making a grocery list a few days before. I sat there for a while staring at that yellow writing pad in front of me. I was thinking of writing a suicide note, but couldn’t think of what I’d say. The phrase, I’m tired, kept running through my mind. Nothing more. I was consumed by my own misery. I wanted to end my life to release myself from this pain. So much had happened to bring me to this point in time. I was weak, afraid, and exhausted.

I knew in my heart that if I didn’t take control of myself, I would succumb to the plan to end my life. I’d had this feeling before. I knew it well. It was easy enough to buy a handgun. I had no criminal record, and since my excuse was that I needed it for protection (as I was not living in the safest of neighborhoods), no one would ever question it. There was no thought of leaving loved ones behind, but there was the question of God. I was always told that suicide was an unforgivable sin. Those who committed it were damned in the eyes of the Church and God. He and I weren’t on the best of terms at this time. I couldn’t reconcile in my mind how a loving God could allow me to get to this point once again. Did He hate me? Was I that horrible of a human being to deserve this pain? I knew that some sins I committed in my life were grievous, but I went to confession. Didn’t that count as forgiveness? Was I still being punished for sins confessed? In the whirlwind of thoughts, I convinced myself that if I did take my own life, I’d have the opportunity to explain why I did it to God once I got to heaven’s gate. Maybe, just maybe, He would accept what I did, forgive me, and let me in.

I walked over to the refrigerator to get something to drink. My throat was parched and had what felt like a golf-ball-sized lump in it. As I reached for the door, I saw the small card I received from my insurance company that had hotline numbers for various services such as 24-hour nursing care, and prescription benefits, and numbers to call in case of an emergency. I had cause to use this card in the past for medical tests that needed pre-certification. It was much more convenient than flipping through a large plan book. I never paid much attention to the other numbers on the card, but this night, I did.

I took the card down and looked at it closely. I found the 800 number for suicide prevention. I stared at it for quite some time. Should I even bother to call? I didn’t have the necessary equipment to carry out my plan that night. I knew I’d have to wake up the next day and either do something about that or suffer through another day. Could they actually help me? Who were these people on the other end of the phone, anyway? I knew they were volunteers, but how much training did they actually have? I started to think that calling couldn’t hurt, since I was desperate and didn’t have an easy way out of my situation at the time.

I was uncertain of what I would say after the person on the other end greeted the caller with, Suicide prevention hotline, how may I help you? Ummm, hello, my name is Lori-ellen and I want to kill myself. That line didn’t sound good. Could they trace the number and send the police or ambulance to take me away? No, I needed to reply calmly to the question, so as not to raise an alarm, but hopefully get some help.

I practiced a few opening lines to help me and scribbled some notes on my yellow writing pad. I can’t think under pressure and when nervous. I sometimes stutter or mix my words together. I didn’t want them to think I was on drugs. I was chain smoking, but that didn’t count. I needed to calm myself a bit if I was to make it through this phone call. I wanted to make sure to say that I was unhappy and felt helpless. Maybe they’d give me a referral to a psychologist on call so I could talk to him.

I put the card on the table next to the writing pad with my notes on it and took the phone off the receiver. I listened to the dial tone until it changed to a busy signal and replaced the phone on its cradle. I paced the floor, sweating, and prayed for guidance and courage. I wondered if God was listening. About ten minutes later, I picked up the phone and tried dialing the number. My hands were shaking so violently that I misdialed twice. I put the phone down again. I wasn’t ready; I was too nervous and frightened. I shook my hands out, paced the floors a few more times, and sat down once again at the table. I looked up to God and said, Please help me make this call, Lord. I’m in pain and need help.

With a bit more conviction and courage this time, I picked up the phone again, and as carefully as I could manage, dialed the number. I listened to it ring several times and was wondering if anyone was there when the line on the other end engaged and a male voice said, Suicide prevention hotline, how can I help you?

There it was, the greeting I thought they would say. What else could they say?-- Suicide prevention, do you want to kill yourself?

After I heard the greeting, I took a deep breath, and said my practiced opening line, I’m very unhappy and need some help.

Will you tell me your name? he asked.

Lori-ellen, I replied.

Are you alone right now, Lori-ellen, or is there anyone with you?

I’m alone.

Lori-ellen, I am here to help in the best way that I can. Do you feel as though you may take your own life tonight?

I’m not sure.

Do you have a plan?

Yes, but I don’t have the things I need.

What would you need?

A gun.

Do you have access to a gun?

No, I didn’t get it yet.

That’s a good thing.

I guess so.

It is so. By making this phone call, you are telling me that deep in your heart you don’t want to kill yourself; you want to get the help you need to heal instead. It took great courage for you to make this call, and I admire you for it. Now, how can I help you with the process of getting help?

I don’t know where to start.

How did you find our phone number?

It was on the card from my insurance company that had a list of phone numbers on it.

So you have insurance?

Yes.

That’s a good thing. It will help you greatly in your process towards healing. You won’t need to worry about the cost.

What do I do?

Do you have a plan book? It’s the book that comes with your insurance card that has a list of doctors in every specialty.

Yes, I have one.

I want you to take out your plan book and look under the Mental Health section in your area. You will find a list of psychologists who take your insurance. Choose one, and first thing tomorrow morning, make the phone call to set up an immediate, emergency appointment. Tell the receptionist that the matter is urgent. If you can’t get an appointment with the first doctor, go down the list until you find one who can see you. Not getting an appointment on the first call does not mean you are being cast off or rejected. Doctors are working with their schedules and may already be booked solid tomorrow. If you don’t have any luck, you need to go the emergency room of the hospital closest to you. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Yes.

Do you work?

Yes.

Call in sick and go to that appointment or hospital. You really should take someone with you if you go to the hospital. You may be asked to stay for a few days until things settle down.

I don’t like hospitals, and that would be a career-ending move for me if my boss found out. I’m not sure I’m willing to take that step.

Okay, but the most important thing is that you move away from thoughts of suicide and turn your attention to seeking professional help. Is there anyone, a friend or family member you can call who will come and stay with you tonight?

No, I don’t want anyone to know.

Well, I can understand that, but you shouldn’t be alone.

I’m not going to do anything.

Will you make me that promise? Will you promise me that you will not harm yourself, but instead make a plan for tomorrow that is all about getting to a doctor for help? Can you make me that promise, Lori-ellen?

I think I can.

Lori-ellen, obviously there is a reason you called. There is something dear to you that stopped you from acting on your plan and urged you to pick up the phone. Think about what it is that is so dear to you that prevented you from making the ultimate mistake. Can you do that for me?

I can try.

Trying is all we can all do. Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?

No, I think I have a better plan now. Thank you.

Good luck Lori-ellen, and remember we are only a phone call away. Good night.

Good night. I hung up the phone.

That conversation was all of about ten minutes. It wasn’t what I expected, but it gave me pause to think about what he said. There was something that made me pick up the phone. What was it that was dear to