Hope

Many Wednesday evenings I can be found at DBSA-Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance); I often facilitate the newcomers group. I orient first-time visitors to our groups and our culture. I always share a five-minute version of my experience with manic depression. I want people to feel comfortable, to know that this is a place where experiences with mental illness can be discussed openly and support can be given and received.

Each group is different: there can be three newcomers or twenty, mostly women, or a more balanced mix. The ages range from eighteen to seventy-something. Usually a majority of the group members have a mood disorder, but sometimes about half are family members struggling with a loved one’s illness. For some an unexpected episode is recent and raw, others have dealt with their illness for years.

It’s a sacred experience, sharing our stories. The time I came closest to tears was when a young woman, perhaps twenty years old, looked at me with tears in her voice and deep pain in her eyes and asked, “Does it get better?” Her vulnerability caught me off guard. Distress and confusion permeated her whole being and I ached for her. I had my first psychotic episode in 1983, and was hospitalized in 1995 and 2003. Over the years my manic depression has informed my identity but I don’t often feel the excruciating pain of those earlier times.

All I could whisper was, ‘yes’, and hope she could feel hope. Without hope, it’s hard to get better.