My first awareness that there was soemthing called "mental illness" came relatively early in life. When I was four or five years old, I remember visiting my grandmother. What a fun time we had together. She would put me on her lap, and let me "drive" her blue Chevrolet about town. With great enthusiasm, she would tell me stories with a lilt in her voice and eyes that danced with delight.
One day, however, my grandmother didn't seem to have any energy to play with me. There was no longer a lilt in her voice. There were dark circles under her eyes, presumably from lack of sleep or always feeling tired. She would sit in her chair and stare for hours. Her response to most everything was a mumbled word, a long sigh, or a grimace.
My mother explained to me that my grandmother was "depressed." The official diagnosis was unipolar depression. It seemed to be a clearly biological illness, and cyclical. Then, suddenly, she would snap out of out, and return to her "old self" -- quoting Shakespeare and Milton to us, impressing us with her German, traveling to foreign cultures and coming home to tell us of her interesting adventures. Through it all, she maintained her reputation in the community as a teacher, an intellectual, a political activist, and an all-around "grand lady."
Despite my grandmother's periodic depressions, most of the time I thought of my family as happy, close, loving, supportive. If you asked my siblings, I suspect they would have said the same.
My uncle wrote in detail about his mother's illness in his book, Curses and Blessings. Read about his experiences and how he became an advocate for people with mental illnesses.
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