Admittedly, his case is mild. But when the average person thinks of someone with OCD, my friend is the kind of person that comes to mind. Contrary to mainstream opinion, however, OCD is a much more dynamic disease. It is multifaceted, coming in all shapes and sizes, and it is nondiscriminatory: anyone can have it. And for those who do have it, their condition may not be what you think it is. Dispelling this myth is J.J. Keeler’s central mission.

In I Hardly Ever Wash My Hands: The Other Side of OCD, Keeler writes openly and often humorously about her condition. Unlike my friend, Keeler does not need to open and close a drawer a certain amount of times. Nor does she need to make sure her desk hits her wall at precisely a 90-degree angle. She’s no Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets. But this does not mean she lacks irrationality.

Keeler paints a perfect portrait of her condition in her opening paragraph: “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had AIDS. I’ve probably had it more often than the average person has had a common cold or a sinus infection. I’ve had it more often than the average child has had strep throat or the average athlete has had a muscle pull. I’ve had AIDS more times than I can count.”

Keeler, by her own admission, has never actually had AIDS. Yet throughout her life, she has continually thought she has been afflicted. When she was told “dirty needles” were one cause of the disease, she took the phrase literally. And when as a child she bought a poster for her room, she thought she infected herself: “After unrolling the poster against the wall and guessing it was straight, I reached into my pocket. Almost immediately the thumbtack—a dirty needle—stuck my finger. Once again, I had AIDS.”

Keeler got AIDS in many other ways as well: nicking her hand on a tree, having a dog slobber on a cut, even just looking at a public toilet soaked in urine. “Though I decided not to use it and immediately left, I got AIDS anyway.”

Worry over AIDS is far from Keeler’s only OCD-driven fear. When she read Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis in high school, she “was obsessively worried about going to bed as a human and waking up as a giant bug.” And when she was given a free teddy bear at a garage sale, all hell broke loose. Keeler didn’t think there was a bomb inside the toy; she knew there was.

The inner workings of Keeler’s mind are worth devoting a few lines to:

I thought about my stethoscope from my toy doctor’s kit and listening to see if I could hear the bomb ticking, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good. Obviously, it would be ticking.

I thought about wrapping the teddy bear in a protective barrier made of aluminum foil, but I wasn’t sure if that would keep the bear secured, or just keep it fresh for tomorrow’s supper.

I thought about taking the teddy bear to some rural area and throwing it away in a field. But that was no good. Someone would find it, take it home and then their home would blow up.

I thought about shoving it down one of the slits on the sidewalk curbs that led to the sewer. This way the bomb would be underground when it exploded. But the toxins from the bomb—there had to be toxins—would get into the city’s water system and poison anyone who drank tap water.

It would be a massive understatement to say that Keeler gave this issue a lot of thought. She obsessed over the idea that her teddy bear was rigged with explosives. The notion clearly consumed her at times. She considered the idea from all different angles, trying to find the best way to deal with this highly sensitive issue.

Welcome to Keeler’s life. No, she does not fret, as she writes, about the “mouse living under [her] stove. I’m not worried. I’m not anxious. In fact, I don’t really care at all.” She is not who we consider to be the typical person with OCD. Keeler instead represents the underreported segment of people with the disease. She’s not the one obsessing about the little things. The title says it all: she hardly ever washes her hands. Such things are relatively trivial to her. It’s the big things that consume Keeler.

I Hardly Ever Wash My Hands is fascinating for many reasons. First, it is elegantly written in a confident and humorous way bereft of any filler. Everything in the book is interesting and necessary. Second, it is one of those rare books that gives the reader unfiltered access to an unusual mind at work. We can see the pain, confusion and despair dripping from each page. Third and finally, it’s just a good book. And for anyone interested in learning more about “the other side of OCD,” it’s a worthwhile book.

One thing worth noting is that Keeler does not downplay the nuisance that OCD can be for people who deal with the more mainstream version. She writes: “Don’t get me wrong. OCD is often a disease marked by a debilitating obsession of all the [typical] things, but that’s only part of the story. Sometimes it’s none of the story.”

For Keeler, common obsessions are not part of her story. Hers is unique and atypical, and news to most of us. For those who struggle with Keeler’s brand of OCD, however, it’s not news. It’s life.

I Hardly Ever Wash My Hands: The Other Side of OCD
By J.J. Keeler
Paragon House: March 1, 2012
Paperback, 170 pages
$16.95

As I cried, I wanted to believe it was the alcohol that induced Mom’s words.  I had to believe it was the alcohol.  I don’t want them.  The words rang in my ears.  That’s the night my heart first broke.

White Elephants is the story of Chynna Laird’s childhood with an alcoholic, bipolar mother.  Not for the faint of heart, this memoir is a gripping tale that Laird colorfully paints for those unfamiliar with what it is like to grow up in this situation.

This review’s opening paragraph comes from a story in the first chapter. Laird overhears a phone call between her grandmother and her mother.  Her mom is drunk and on one of her many “vacations” and Laird’s grandparents are taking care of Laird and her brother, Cam.  Five-year-old Tami (the name Laird went by for most of her life) hears her mother say on the phone, “I don’t want them.”  This scene sets the stage for the drama that plays through the rest of the book.

No one seemed to understand the manic behavior and profound depression of Tami’s mother, Janet. Janet’s siblings and parents were constantly at their wit’s end. Laird describes several points when her mother was clearly actively suicidal.

Living in a chaotic home filled with binge drinking, verbal and physical abuse will leave its mark on a child.  Tami was molested and raped in her own home.  She and her brother started drinking at a young age and were both involved in drugs at various points.  They both struggled with anger.  Cam raged on the exterior, punching walls and sometimes turning on their mother, whereas Tami unleashed her anger on herself.  She was known among other high school students for crying when she was drunk. By the age of 15, she had begun cutting and even attempted suicide one night.  As she grew older, Tami struggled with her self-esteem and developed bulimia.

In hindsight, Laird is able to recognize the “angels” who played a role in her life.  She and Cam were close to their grandparents, who practically raised them. They were the only real parents that Tami had ever known and their influence was prevalent through most of her life. 

Her stepfather, Pat, rescued her many times from herself and from her mother.  At 15, Tami was drunk at a party and had to call Pat to pick her up.  When they got home, he hugged her and told her he was not going to ask what happened.  “I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re both home safe…You’re better than this, Tam.  You’re better than she is.” 

However, when Tami finally realized that she needed help, she turned to her godmother, “Auntie Lois.”  Tami moved in with Lois and her family and began a daily ritual of having tea with her aunt.  Over tea, Lois would patiently listen while Tami spoke about the trauma, the alcohol, and all of the other dark secrets that she had been carrying for so long.  This was the turning point for Tami:

In that moment, as I felt Auntie Lois hug me – a person who really believed me, a person so close to God she could be considered an angel – the flood gates opened and I cried.  I cried for the little girl I never was.  I cried for all the times I hurt but couldn’t react.  I cried for not having a mother who loved me the way she wanted to.

White Elephants touched me much more than I expected.  Laird says that she wrote the book in hopes that it would help someone who has been in a similar situation.  Because she could not help her mom, she hopes that someone can find some help in her story.  Although I have not been through the trials that she has, her strength and determination to not allow her mother’s abuse to determine her future is admirable and inspiring.  The moment I began reading her book I could not put it down.  Moreover, after finishing it 24 hours after I started it, I was ready to read it again.  There are not enough adjectives to adequately describe White Elephants: inspiring, tragic, heroic, admirable, honest, and deeply moving.  There were points when I found myself crying along with Tami and others when I was cheering for her on the sidelines during her recovery.

I think that Laird accomplished her goal through her story.  Not everyone will be able to relate to the events, but I believe most people will be able to relate to the struggle of pulling yourself out of depression and finding your own feet to stand on.  In this way, Laird has most assuredly accomplished her goal for this beautiful book.

White Elephants – A Memoir
By Chynna T. Laird
Eagle Wings Press: February 1, 2011
Paperback, 280 pages
$14

When Truth Lies, a novel, follows this young man’s quest for all things young people can’t wait to experience: newfound independence, dates, and sex. All turn problematic for Kevin when he exhibits signs of schizophrenia.

Author Terry Garahan writes this story based upon his experience as a social worker who worked with mentally ill patients. Now he’s a professor at Ithaca College. He created the character of Kevin to give readers insights into this complex disease: what patients really experience, and the challenges that they and their families face.

The story begins when some frat boys talk Kevin into “borrowing” a keg for one of their parties. Kevin brings the beer cooler over with every intention of returning it to the school where he works. However, he’s caught and charged with grand larceny. The judge gives Kevin a choice: jail or the Army (Vietnam is in full swing). He opts for the Army, believing he’s on a mission to end the war. However, when Kevin enters boot camp, fear paralyzes him.

He had been moved from stockade to stockade in the military system, put on buses, and shackled to the front seat. He was passed like a baton, on and on, to the next place north. Death hunted him at every step, each cell and locked room a place of filth and squalor. Each guard, a fallen angel, each meal filled with dead flesh scorched by a flame.

Finally he ends up in a mental hospital. However, he escapes and joins a group of hippies. They load up the “Cool Bus” and head to Woodstock for a three-day concert, where they drop acid. Kevin becomes even more strung out, thinking he has lost pieces of himself. “I lost me,” he cries. “I’m not here. I’m not sure I ever was. I’m not sure I ever will be.” A medic is found in the crowd who just happens to have a supply of antipsychotic medication. Kevin is temporarily calmed, and the scene closes with Jimi Hendrix playing the Star-Spangled Banner.

Frankly, I’m not sure why Garahan decided to write a fictional account when he had real-life experiences with schizophrenic patients. Was he afraid of exposing past clients (couldn’t he disguise their identities the way Oliver Sacks does)? Or did fiction just seem easier? He could use composites to turn several characters into one in this made-up account. It’s a little confusing as he’s putting this forward as an honest book about schizophrenia, and yet the story seems overly dramatic, set within clichéd sixties moments and dated hospital scenes and treatments.

For these reasons, I don’t find this story very convincing. When Kevin ends up at yet another mental hospital, the psychiatrist sends him to the canteen every day to fetch his lunch. Of course, Kevin has been hiding his medication inside his cheek and mixing it into the doctor’s food. Lo and behold, the doctor develops a “unexplained” lethargy. Not only does this seems highly unrealistic, but it’s silly.

There are a number of really good memoirs about schizophrenia. Among them are Angelhead by Greg Bottoms and Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. I happen to love a small, self-published book by Brooke Katz, I Think I Scared Her, who gives a detailed account of her own childhood schizophrenic onset, hearing voices. She didn’t tell her parents for years because she didn’t want to upset them. These stories, to me, give clearer and more honest pictures of this illness. I think Garahan missed an opportunity to share his unique insights and observations to really enlighten and inform readers

To his credit, however, he does deal with tough subjects that many other writers would have skirted, such as sex and its complications for the mentally ill. In addition, he creates scenes of life on the streets, which patients, family, and friends may find only too familiar.

As a work of fiction, When Truth Lies transports readers into a world that may be largely unfamiliar. Because Garahan avoids all medical jargon, this tale engages readers in Kevin’s life and keeps us wondering, will he turn out all right?

When Truth Lies: A Journey With Schizophrenia
By Terry Garahan
Louis Publishing Group: 2011
Paperback, 249 pages
$11.99

Rosenthal shares her battle with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome (SJS), leading us from her diagnosis at age 13 through 24 subsequent years of psychological repercussions. Rosenthal recounts the story of how she fought for years to overcome her PTSD, and managed to slowly climb her way out of a serious case of depression and anxiety, experiencing a rebirth along the way. Ultimately this results in a remarkable tale of personal strength and post-traumatic growth.

The book is divided into four sections: ‘Shock;’ ‘Confusion;’ ‘Clarity;’ and ‘Healing,’ with each of these representing a different stage in Rosenthal’s journey. The first, ‘Shock,’ describes Rosenthal’s life ‘before the world intruded’ – the innocent childhood cut short by the onset of her terrible illness. ‘Confusion’ and ‘Clarity’ cover her emotional journey in coming to terms with this trauma, and ‘Healing’ describes her eventual recovery and return to happiness.

Not only is Johnson one of the 0.5 people per million to suffer from SJS, but in her case it also develops into its most extreme, life-threatening form, Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis Syndrome (TENS).The symptoms of this are a form of blistering so serious that Rosenthal has to be treated in a hospital burn unit. She recounts the condition’s sudden onset with such excruciating accuracy and vivid attention to detail that you may find yourself wincing as you read about the unbelievable pain she had to endure. Rosenthal recalls meeting the hospital psychiatrist, and being unable to put her experience into words at the time:

I did not tell her how drastically I felt changed. I did not say out loud that I was trying to suppress the memory of a pain so intense it defied words. I could not explain that I was struggling not to be overwhelmed by a staggering number of new fears and feelings, nor even the latest fear: that I had survived the physical onslaught only to be outdone by the emotions in its wake.

Indeed, it is these subsequent emotions which later cause Rosenthal to become disconnected from the rest of the world. She survives a near-death experience, and then sinks into a state of deep depression, anxiety, insomnia, and eating disorders.

Rosenthal shares the following quote from Dr. David Biro’s memoir One Hundred Days: My Unexpected Journey from Doctor to Patient:

Doctors love a good zebra. Patients with rare, exotic diseases. We crowd around to see them, touch them, photograph them. We put them on display at conferences. We write their stories in journals. We do all this, I suspect, because they reawaken the spirit that first pushed us into medicine: a fascination with the human body, its incredible achievements and its terrifying failings.

It is this idea of an “exciting zebra” for the medical community that Rosenthal most strongly identifies with throughout her struggle. She reluctantly adopts this as her identity, labeling herself as a “medical anomaly, alone, a freak.”

Eventually, 16 years after her initial diagnosis, and following countless fruitless attempts at a cure by her doctors, Rosenthal decides to seek a different kind of help. She arranges to see a psychotherapist, named Greg. It is this work with Greg, and an introduction to transcendental meditation, that signals a change for Rosenthal: She talks about her experiences for the first time and begins to discover her true voice, escaping the fearful clutches of her Ego voice. Remembering her college days, Rosenthal writes that “[W]riting was good for me. It gave me a focus outside my physical discomfort and limitation. It gave me something in which to bury the emotional angst I carried and also a place to explore how and when and why to find language and choose words.”

As her sessions with Greg evolve, Rosenthal recalls that:

I became more of a full self: I defined boundaries, learned how to communicate, and started more consciously mulling the question, ‘What do I want?’… I made a list of twenty-two things I was afraid of. At the top of the list: ‘I am afraid of myself.’ And yet, I wanted more and more to become myself. Writing seemed to be the path to that connection.

She begins to make significant progress, and to feel in control of her life, so Rosenthal terminates the sessions with Greg. But another onset of the illness sparks a relapse into her depressed state, as she is once again forced to resign herself to the role of patient, or ‘zebra.’ It is this relapse which finally triggers the turning point for Rosenthal, as she fully acknowledges the fear she has lived with – and denied – for so long. She decides once and for all to “reclaim myself,” with Greg’s help:

We break through the fear to a point where I begin to imagine for myself a different life than the invalid one I am used to. This happens oh, so slowly, but I hear the machinery grinding in my head. I fantasize I could be her, the girl of such vast energy I glimpsed for just a moment in the hospital. I imagine myself strong and free and vibrant and healthy and able to succeed without enduring the pitfalls of illness. One day, walking along the beach I feel myself as I would like to be: happy, unafraid, able to live without looking back, a strong source of joyful vitality.

Crucially, through her ongoing therapy sessions, and by reading two life-changing books – Joan Didion’s ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’ (a parent’s perspective of a child’s grave illness) and Elizabeth Wurtzel’s ‘More, Now, Again: A Memoir Of Addiction’ – Rosenthal realizes just how important her writing is to her, and how it can offer her a solution to her problems:

Socrates wrote that language is ‘an activity that moves the soul towards definition.’ Words can deliver us from our solitude, or deepen it. They are our most specific form of translating what exists in a heart through the landscape of a mind. I have always used language as a fence, as a guardrail against truth, definition, and exposure. So often my words have cloaked my self in disguises designed to ensure anonymity. Or, the lack of words has kept me separate from even myself. Recently, however, I sense the ability to use language in another way. I begin writing poetry again, starker poems and more to the point, writing more directly than ever about the aftereffects of illness and its consequence on identity… I begin to feel safe… I understand the problem has been that I never acknowledged my past and then came back to the present. Instead, I have lived in the trauma and run away from myself in every moment. It is time to sit still.

This will certainly sound familiar to anyone who has ever studied the concepts of Narrative Therapy, and it is ultimately — through her writing, a discovered love of music and dance, and a new identity – that Rosenthal finally overcomes the trauma of her illness and truly achieves happiness. At the end of the book she states that:

I can describe myself as if TENS never happened: I am a dancer, I am a writer, a creator, a lover, a partner, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I am a dog owner, a Floridian, a beachwalker, a homeowner. I am a joy seeker. I am a believer in my self. I have conquered the past. Now, I am creating my future as a woman who is connected, strong, and free.

Notably, Rosenthal is many things, but she is no longer a ‘zebra’.

Today Rosenthal works as a post-trauma coach, using the wisdom gained from her own experiences to help others, and employing the philosophy that “we can’t always find meaning in our trauma, but we can learn to make meaning come out of it.”

This is an honest, triumphant story of personal courage in the face of adversity, and will undoubtedly help anyone who has ever dealt with the effects of trauma or illness. At one point in the book, Rosenthal states that “Writing seems like the only thing that can save me,” and I am grateful that it has. Rosenthal is a survivor, and hopefully her story will help many other victims of PTSD work toward their own recovery and post-traumatic growth, finding happiness and a new sense of identity along the way.

Before the World Intruded: Conquering the Past and Creating the Future, A Memoir
By Michele Rosenthal
Your Life After Trauma, LLC: April 9, 2012
Paperback, 230 pages
$14.95

One of our main frustrations with the program stemmed from the way my husband and I were regarded by the staff. For reasons that are still not completely clear to me, they saw us as overbearing, controlling parents, and instead of encouraging Dan to include us in the major decisions regarding how he should proceed with his life, they discouraged him from consulting with us at all.

Though this part of Dan’s journey occurred almost four years ago, I think about it often. Was it us? Did we really come across as overpowering and manipulative with our son? I honestly don’t think so and am still baffled by this scenario. I don’t have an explanation, but I have some thoughts which may be helpful to those considering a residential program for their child.

For one thing, the staff at this program not only saw Dan in the worst condition of his life, they saw his parents in pretty bad shape as well. By the time our son entered this program, he had been dealing with severe OCD for several months; OCD so bad that he would often spend entire days just lying on the floor, doing absolutely nothing. Not surprisingly, our whole family was affected by this situation, and my husband’s and my nerves were frayed. We were exhausted, stressed, confused, and most of all, terrified. While family and friends who knew us well saw us as caring parents who weren’t quite “ourselves,” the staff at the program didn’t really know us at all. I’m sure they saw us as a dysfunctional family, and, to tell you the truth, by the time Dan arrived at the program, we were. Still, while we may not have been in great condition, we weren’t raving maniacs either.

Another issue was Dan’s age. He had turned 19 the week before starting the program, and was considered an adult. The staff felt he should make his own decisions regarding how long he should stay and whether he should go back to school.

This still floors me. Of course Dan’s opinion mattered, but we absolutely should have been included in these discussions. What amazes me most is that the staff knew how bad Dan’s OCD was. How could they expect a 19-year-old who was barely functioning to make these major life decisions without his family’s input? Why should he have to? Ultimately, we did have control over Dan’s length of stay, as we were paying for it.

Perhaps what the staff at this program disliked about us the most was the fact that we openly disagreed with them over how Dan’s treatment should progress. After spending nine weeks there, we knew it was time for Dan to leave the program and go back to college. It was obvious to us he was becoming institutionalized, and the bottom line was that Dan had chosen this summer program because he was so intent on going back to the college he loved.

We knew that leaving was the right thing for him to do, and our decision was supported by two psychologists outside of the residential program. But his treatment providers wanted him to stay. This is when it really became “Us vs. Them,” and though we tried to work together, they kept insisting that they knew best and we were making a big mistake.

The main problem, as I see it, is that the psychologist, psychiatrist, and social worker at this residential treatment program didn’t know the real Dan. They knew the Dan who entered their program in the worst shape of his life, battling severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. But he was our son, and we knew him better than anyone, even better than he knew himself at the time. Rather than viewing us suspiciously, as if we had some type of ulterior motive, it would have been so beneficial to Dan if we could have all worked together.

Instead it became adversarial, and this made an already difficult situation worse. Dan had enough to deal with without the added stress that arose from feeling torn between his parents and the staff with whom he had grown so close. While I know his treatment providers may very well have had his best interests at heart, he was still just one of their many clients. But he’s our son. And nobody cares about him, loves him, and is as totally vested in his well-being as we are. We had to remind Dan’s social worker and therapists of this more than once; we shouldn’t have had to tell them at all.

If you are considering a residential treatment program for your teenager or young adult with obsessive-compulsive disorder, I would suggest having some conversations before they even enter the program. How is it determined how long they will stay? Who decides? How is ongoing communication maintained with parents? And if you have any issues, questions, or concerns while your loved one is there, address them immediately with your liaison. Most important, remember that you care about your son or daughter more than anyone, and your feelings and opinions should be respected.

No wonder this word retirement seems so inappropriate as a description of what I, and many others, am in the process of doing. I will no longer be seeing patients and, at least for the moment, not generating an income. But I am still a psychologist and I am certainly not going into seclusion! No, this is about a transition, one of many that we all go through.

In fact, as I reflected on this new phase of my life, I began to realize that life is actually a constant series of an immense number of transitions. There are some so tiny as to be imperceptible and whose impact kind of sneaks up on you. This can be gradual changes in a relationship, our experiences at work, or changes in our body.

Of course, we often experience obvious, and sometimes traumatic, transitions in any of these aspects of our life. It really is amazing how much change is constantly taking place, which means people are required to be constantly coping with transitions, the desired or chosen ones and the undesired, and, in some cases, inevitable ones, such as those associated with aging or loss.

One of the primary characteristics of childhood is how little control children have over the transitions that they constantly must make. Their bodies seem to change overnight and not just when they are very young. How often do ask our teenager how he could possibly have outgrown his clothes already?

We love to watch our preschoolers go through their stages of sitting, crawling, walking, running…reaching things we thought were safely put beyond their grasp…suddenly able to ride their bike without training wheels, then pushing to ride beyond the boundaries that we feel are safe.

Meanwhile, we are placing these little ones in day care, nursery school, and then we put them into school, where they are required to move from grade to grade, each year adjusting to new teachers, classmates, school buildings, and increasingly challenging academic and social learning.

Children vary widely in the inborn capacity to manage these changes. One of the things I learned from reading William Bridges’s “Transitions” (Addison-Wesley, 1980) is that everyone focuses too much on the new challenges about to be faced and not enough on the challenge of letting go of where we were. For example, parents are surprised when a child isn’t excited about summer vacation. Some children are much more comfortable with the structure and content of the school day.

I think that the better the child’s experience with a situation, the more difficult it might be to let go and move on. The mother who creates a wonderful time at home for her very young child should not be surprised at her daughter’s resistance to go off to school, even though she seems so well-adjusted, social, and bright. When this happens, we look for the bad. Maybe we are looking in the wrong place for an answer.

Of course, the child who did not have a good experience with a particular teacher may be very excited about moving on while the child who loved elementary school may not be eager to transition to middle school. Years ago, most school systems had junior highs, where 7th and 8th graders were isolated from other grades.

Gradually people realized this was not a good idea and now most systems have middle schools which usually include at least 6th, if not 5th, graders. One reason why this change was needed is that children grow at such varied rates, physically, socially, and emotionally. There are such dramatic transitions in early adolescence. Seventh grade girls show a substantial variation in height and physical appearance. Seventh grade boys can range from those who are children to those who are young men. By including younger children in a middle school setting, the teens who are still really children can find compatible peers and not feel so out of place.

Family and friends might be unsure if recovery is possible. They question how they can help. Mental illness creates a feeling of helplessness for everyone involved. My and my family’s experience with chronic mental illness has allowed me to understand how important it is to have a support group. It can define the journey taken to recover from mental illness.

My diagnosis is rare. I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder when I was 12. While my siblings were attending school and playing soccer on weekends, I was confined to a children’s psychiatric hospital. I remember wondering what was wrong with me. I remember my parents, wide-eyed, watching as my moods shifted by the hour, even the minute. We were all terrified. Mental illness is frightening at its core.

Unsure what to do, my parents brought me to doctors, psychiatrists, therapists and even nutritionists. The various doctors told them I had Attention Deficit Disorder; the psychiatrists told my parents they were parenting me badly. They were certain that explained my erratic behavior.

The therapist asked me to draw pictures that they thought would explain my moods. I refused to use any crayon that was not black, threw the toys that were carefully placed around the brightly lit room, and tore up the paper. I was unable to control myself. She dismissed me as being ‘overemotional’ and ‘narcissistic’ at the ripe age of 11. The nutritionist told me I was allergic to dairy products. My family, in a show of support, stopped eating anything containing dairy.

Fourteen years ago, professionals simply could not believe a child could have a serious mental illness−despite our family tree being defined by mental illness and suicide.

The years before my diagnosis were painful and affected our family dynamic immensely. My two siblings watched their older sister fall apart; they viewed their parents trying to catch me as I fell into blackness. My illness was quickly making my family ill.

It is impossible to capture my experience with mental illness in a few words, but I can tell you that without the support of my family, friends and a support team, I would not be writing these words. Twenty-six years old now, I feel I have some experience under my belt (so to speak) and would like to share different ways in which people can support a loved one struggling with mental illness.

Often, a newly diagnosed person is confused and angry. They may believe they do not need help. They might push away family and friends. As a person living with a chronic mental illness, I can tell you that isolation often results from fear. Mental illness carries stigma and it is frightening.

For example: I fall into a severe and crippling depression each winter. Each time it occurs I am, somehow, surprised. I quickly forget that my life is usually full of color and that waking up each morning often makes me smile. When I become ill I am certain I will never be well again.

If a family member or friend is unstable, the most important thing you can do is remind them that they will become well again. Without my family and friends to help me through each winter, to assure me that my life will become mine again, once spring arrives, I would certainly struggle more.

It is important to have a plan of action. Effective communication will be crucial if the person with mental illness shows signs of a relapse. A plan of action for such an event creates a feeling of security both for the person struggling and for those who love them.

An example: My family and I sat down with my psychiatrist−once it was clear my episodes were seasonal−and made a plan, in writing, that stated the steps that would be taken if I became ill. It was a difficult thing to do at the time. Seeing my diagnosis on paper made it real. But that paper provides a feeling of security for all of us.

The plan can include medication alterations, community outreach, and simple things like charting your mood and recognizing patterns. I believe this can be one of the most useful tools when working to help someone recover from a mental illness. It certainly is not a document that is placed on my fridge—it’s hidden away somewhere—but it has been instrumental in my recovery.

The health of those who support the mentally ill person often gets ignored. When I first became ill, my entire family suffered. My parents, while working full-time and taking care of my two siblings, spent years focused on my illness and recovery. In the process, they became unwell themselves. My mother slipped into a depression and my father worked to keep our family functioning. It was not easy.

Often, when a person must spend so much time focusing on someone they love, they forget to take care of themselves. It is impossible to help someone else if you become sick yourself. Ask yourself: “Do I need to step back?” Sometimes you do. My family has learned both to support me and support each other. It is in this way that we have been able to embrace recovery together.

Thus, The Escape of Sigmund Freud, written by David Cohen, historical writer, filmmaker and psychologist, unravels a strange and often overlooked bit of history in just how Freud managed to leave occupied Austria, when Hermann Göebbels and Joseph Himmler had set out to kill psychoanalysts, particularly Jewish ones.

By 1925, Freud was an international celebrity, the father of psychoanalysis, and author of groundbreaking theories on the unconscious mind, repression, and dreams. As well, he headed the International Psychoanalytic Publishing House, which he had started in 1919. In his therapy practice, he charged $25 an hour for his services–an astronomical sum back then, the equivalent today of nearly $4,000 an hour. Thus, his clients came from rarefied circles, which included the colorful Princess Marie Bonaparte, socialite and great-granddaughter of Napoleon, who became Freud’s close friend and advocate. 

However, the world as Freud knew it had dramatically changed since Adolf Hitler had seized power and forced his ideology concerning racial cleansing onto Germany, then Austria. Hitler was appalled to learn that most German doctors were Jewish. “The worst statistics from Nazis’ point of view were pediatricians: 72 percent were Jewish,” writes Cohen. Certainly most psychoanalysts were Jewish. Thus, in 1936, Matthias Göering (cousin of Hermann Göering) assumed leadership over the German General Medical Society for Psychotherapy, renouncing Jewish psychoanalysts. Göering had their property and assets seized, which included Freud’s publishing company.

Harsh as these actions were, the Nazis couldn’t escape the fact that Freud was a well-connected, international figure, who they grudgingly had to respect. Freud did have friends throughout the world, such as William Bullitt, the American ambassador in Paris, and President Roosevelt, who telegrammed Hitler, warning him that any harm done to Freud would be considered a deplorable act. Still it didn’t stop Nazis from hanging swastikas on Freud’s stoop or the Gestapo from harassing him, claiming that he had not paid his taxes and his publishing company had outstanding debt. Thus, military police  confiscated the family’s cash and passports. These actions reached a climax when the  Gestapo arrested Freud’s daughter Anna, a noted analyst in her own right, which shook Freud into a stark reality: His life in Vienna was over.

What ultimately happens is best read in Cohen’s book, but suffice to say Freud was lucky to have influential friends, money stashed in secret accounts, and an unlikely supporter– a German officer who out of character developed a conscience and looked the other way as Freud left. Thus, the Freud family (including his daughter, Anna, his wife, Martha, and their faithful housekeeper, Paula), fled to Britain. They toted along Freud’s famous couch, some of his books, and many objets d’art.

Four of Freud’s sisters stayed behind. Even though Freud made many attempts to contact them, he never succeeded. Years after his death, researchers would discover that three had died in concentration camps. The fourth most likely died of malnutrition. More details about their deaths and other circumstances surrounding the Freuds and their escape may exist in correspondence sequestered in boxes at the Library of Congress that remain restricted until 2050 and 2057. Other boxes, particularly those involving Marie Bonaparte, supposedly are sealed for eternity. One can only assume they must hold privileged doctor-patient information.  

Even so, there’s no shortage of research in this book. In spite of being a relatively slim book, it is dense with facts. Cohen throws so many names at readers that he offers a who’s who guide in the back to help keep the various characters straight.

Though the title of the book is The Escape of Sigmund Freud, less than a fourth of the book really deals with his escape. If I have one quibble with the author it’s about this. Rather than rehashing a lot of German and European history that most people know only too well, I would have liked for him to have given us more details on Freud’s flight from Vienna, which turns out to be a rather complex and amazing feat that deserves more attention and detail.

Even so, the story is remarkable and gives further credence to the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. This book will appeal to anyone interested in early psychotherapy history and the strange and complicated life of Sigmund Freud.

The Escape of Sigmund Freud
By David Cohen
Overlook Hardcover: March 29, 2012
Hardcover, 272 pages
$27.95

Throughout the book, Kaye fluctuates between the past and present to tell her story. She begins her narrative with some insight into the possible early warning signs of Ben’s illness:

It all started, or so I thought, with marijuana. Or did the trouble really begin when Ben dropped out of high school, with plans to travel cross-country, search for his father, and knock on doors to ask for work if he needed money?

Maybe I should have recognized schizophrenia when Ben was fifteen, the night he broke down in sobs after a huge fight with me and said, “What’s wrong with me, Mom? Please, please, find me someone to talk to. I don’t know what’s happening. I used to be so happy.”

The consistent theme throughout Kaye’s book is that “there must be a reasonable explanation” for her son’s maladaptive behavior. She carries the reader along and we, in turn, can feel her pain to find the answers to her son’s issues and problems. She begins some of her chapters with excerpts from Ben’s writings, which provide the reader some insight into his perspective on his struggles:

I am most of my voices

Many different selves

I don’t need to give in to what I fear

Just give in to the fact that I’m afraid.  

~ Ben, c. 2001

As a helpful resource, Kaye includes ‘chapter guideposts’ which clarify some of the various issues and terms related to loving someone with schizophrenia. She also offers tips and resources to assist in the management of the disorder. One guidepost she provides in chapter 19 is entitled “some reasons for medication noncompliance” For example, the individual may have a “lack of insight into the illness (biological — the brain is impaired),” “they don’t like the side effects (weight gain, sexual performances, sedated feeling)”  and “fear of becoming medication dependent.” Kaye also offers suggestions for what loved ones can do about this problem, including watching for the return of symptomatic behavior and increasing supervision of medication.

Ben was diagnosed with ADHD in high school. Kaye notes that during the following years, “he was to pass through the hands of four psychiatrists, several therapists, and several diagnoses and prescriptions.” He was also subject to five psychiatric hospitalizations in 2003 alone, then two more at a later date. Those eventually led to his current recovery. Kaye described the weight of Ben’s illness on her life: the “family feels isolated, stigmatized, and often very alone.”

It is remarkable that Kaye remained optimistic about her son’s recovery even as she trudged through all the years of hardship and anguish. Her dedication to her son is reflected in a statement made in her introduction: “Ben has never lost us; the love of his family has been part of his recovery.“ Currently, Ben is in recovery as he adheres to a medication regimen and lives in a group home. Kaye is hopeful that her son “can one day attend college, hold a job and eventually live on his own.”

It is unfortunate that Kaye and her family had to go through so much before Ben received the correct diagnosis of schizophrenia. From this psychotherapist’s perspective, it seemed obvious from early in the book that Ben was struggling with more than just typical ADHD-related issues. Therefore, I found myself feeling frustrated by the various mental health professionals that Kaye consulted and why they could not see what was the core diagnosis underlying his maladaptive and tormented behavior. On the other hand, the book also reminds me that schizophrenia does not make up a person’s complete identity. These individuals are more than just their voices and symptoms; they are human beings that require love, compassion, dignity and respect. 

Overall, Ben Behind His Voices is a book I would recommend for those individuals diagnosed with schizophrenia as well as those who love them. Kaye shares her own personal pain and frustration in understanding the illness as well as provides suggestions to readers on how to best cope with it. It also offers hope to those families who may be on the verge of giving up on their loved one and further reminds mental health professionals to remain compassionate in their treatment of persons afflicted with this tragic disorder.

Ben Behind His Voices: One Family’s Journey from the Chaos of Schizophrenia to Hope
By Randye Kaye
Rowan & Littlefield Publishers: August 16, 2011
Hardcover, 320 pages
$26.95

Of course I love the book partly because his central points are the same ones I’ve been writing about for years, only he presents them with more research support, greater detail, and an innovative model, his 5-step cycle. He even uses one of my favorite analogies, parents as gardeners (also as farmers), in a manner similar to my favorite phrase, “be a gardener, not a sculptor.” He also shares my disdain for the epidemic over focus on grades and “best” colleges as well as the harm of too much structured sports and not enough value given to free play.

But my real reason for saying thanks to Dr. H. (notice the similarity!) is that his book pushes readers to think about their own lives and try to understand what may have contributed to their own happiness and success. It turns out Dr. Hallowell and I share more than similar ideas about what really matters to children.

His personal history is a difficult one. His childhood is marked by a father with mental illness who was hospitalized when he was young, a divorce when he was 6, a mother who drank, and an abusive stepfather who also drank. Add in two learning disabilities and he certainly is qualified to ask how he managed to become a happy, successful adult despite such a seemingly problematic childhood. His openness in sharing the challenges in his life, including his insecurities as a parent, is part of what makes this book special.

As I said, we have much in common. Though my history is not as troubled as his, I have always thought of my childhood as an unhappy time. My mother developed a severe mental illness and was hospitalized for part of my high school years. My father struggled to make a living and I felt ashamed of our run-down house and old used cars. We lived in the middle of nowhere far out on Long Island and I spent a lot of time by myself. I went to a school that was seven miles away and not until my junior year of high school did redistricting bring me within two miles of my school. All those years of long bus rides to school left me with virtually no afterschool social life and, during that time, I was always the only Jewish kid in my class, a situation that often resulted in being bullied by the tough boys who were not good students.

I was the classic late bloomer, and I do mean late. Not until my junior year in college did I begin to resemble the more outgoing, outspoken leader-type of person I was to become as an adult. So how did that transformation happen? What gave me the strength and skills to cope with adverse conditions?

Dr. Hallowell centers on the term “connection” as his core thesis for what matters most in life. Here, again, we are in strong agreement. So I searched back into my life to think about what connections made a difference. It starts with my mother. Despite whatever demons she struggled with (and showed remarkable strength by making a significant recovery), I was unquestionably the proverbial apple of her eye. And I knew it. She believed in me and showed an interest in me that was definitely special. Whatever I was doing was important to her. She even took the time to “enjoy” my first Elvis records! She was not a warm, nurturing mother, but we clearly had a very strong bond that continued until the end of her life about ten years ago.

Connection is so important. It gives one a sense of self-value and a core of good feelings that provides a powerful resource when life presents extra-special challenges. Research shows it to be the primary antidote against adolescent risks of drugs and dropping out. It should be at the center of parents’ values and priorities. In the long run it is clearly much more important to a happy and successful life than children’s achievements (or lack of).

As important as it is to understand where our strengths come from, it is also important to understand how our personal history influences the way we parent. My father and I did not have a strong connection; in fact, very little connection. Though I was told stories about how he took me for long walks when I was very young, I do not recall our spending time playing together. When family gathered, the men played cards. Yet I have no recollection of him playing cards with me. He was not athletic. There were no games of catch in the yard and no shooting hoops with the makeshift, crooked, backboard that I had attached to a big oak tree. He never came to my games when I played on teams. I know he was working long hours, but to a young kid, the absence is deeply felt.

Ironically, my father turned out to play a significant role in my life, because I was determined that when I had children I would spend a lot of time playing with them, and I did. Through that experience I got to play all the card games and board games that I never played as a child. So I had a “second childhood.” I have never lost touch with that little boy inside who loved to play. I am still sad that my father died when I was a senior in college. I know that as I matured I would have come to understand him better and we probably would have grown closer. I know he loved me.

This very short book,Tragic Beauty by Arlene Diane Landau, analyzes this archetypical personality in great detail. She illustrates how a life built on sex, wealth, fame, and beauty results in disillusionment, disastrous marriages, drug abuse, prostitution, and even early death.

Landau writes from a personal and professional point of view, having begun her career as a Hollywood dancer, model, actor, and movie extra. Everyone from Playboy to Elvis wanted to be with her. What seemed like a fantasy life brought Landau total misery.

“At the time I did not know the words for what I was feeling and experiencing,” she writes. “I was suffering from a profound sense of emptiness over a lack of meaning in my life.” Then she discovered Jungian analysis and the power of interpreting dreams, which opened up a new and more positive pathway in her life. She headed back to college and became a Jungian analyst.

Landau devotes about a third of her book to defining the Aphrodite type, giving examples from literature (Madame Bovary), film (Gloria in Butterfield 8), and celebrities (Princess Diana, Marilyn Chambers, and all the usual suspects). From there, she explores Greek mythology, giving long and complicated genealogical histories of gods and goddesses–not just Aphrodite, but seemingly everyone on Mount Olympus. Frankly, I wanted to skim this section because it’s rather academic and tedious, full of names and complicated liaisons that boggle the mind and don’t seem related to the book’s mission: creating balance for Aphrodite types.

Past this, though, the book gains momentum, focusing on Jungian philosophy related to archetypes, and here I think Landau shines as she digs into her main point. “Jung’s theory of archetypes, which he formulated in the early part of the twentieth century, provides a means of uniting the multitudes of images produced in myth, religion, all forms of art, dreams, fantasy–in short, all forms of human creativity–into broad categories that facilitate understanding of the entire image-making process,” she writes.

In fact, Jung considered archetypes to be embedded in our unconsciousness, “a spiritual goal toward which the whole nature of man strives; it is the sea to which all rivers wind their way, the prize which the hero wrest from the fight with the dragon,” Jung wrote. Slaying monsters and great beasts is as old as time, part of human’s great psychology and storytelling, as is Aphrodite and her archetypical sisters, Athena (warrior), Artemis (adventurer), and Hestia (homemaker).

In essence, “archetypes appear as myths, though…have been modified by the individual unconsciousness of the artist or story,” writes Landau. “Myths reveal the nature of the human soul.” In other words, archetypes are primordial aspects of human nature, what Jung calls our collective unconscious and “contains the whole spiritual heritage of mankind’s evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual.” Blame Hollywood for our lustful desires, but blame should be placed on our natural psyche.

According to Landau, the Aphrodite woman is so unbalanced, edging toward borderline personality, that she needs to find balance–more Athena or more Artemis or other characteristics that will round out her personality. The author devotes an entire chapter to cases where she has helped Aphrodite women search within themselves by exploring and analyzing their dreams. Delving into the unconscious in this way has opened up many of Landau’s clients to new ways of looking at themselves and their lives.

I wish more of the book had been devoted to this and the focus directed a little more on how women can achieve more balance or derive meaning from their dreams in order to better themselves. Landau does address this, but it is buried beneath a lot of extraneous material that probably could have been trimmed back with the help of a good editor.

Certainly there are plenty of Aphrodites out there who can use a serious consciousness awakening and will likely find this book helpful. As Jung writes, “If a woman of this type remains unconscious of the meaning of her function…she will herself perish by the sword she brings. But consciousness transforms her into a deliverer and redeemer.”

Tragic Beauty: The Dark Side of Venus Aphrodite and the Loss and Regeneration of the Soul
By Arlene Diane Landau
Spring Journal Books: December 1, 2011
Softcover, 118 pages
$22.95

Morrison’s book takes readers through her spiritual evolution and growth process by using various case studies and personal real-life examples. The book reads as a novel, but presents the audience with insightful and thoughtful concepts of spiritual enlightenment. Although the book does not present as a “how-to,” or even a linear equation for enlightenment, it still takes the reader on a journey of personal reflection and growth. I believe the goal of Morrison’s work is to help readers develop their own personal definition of an otherwise elusive Eastern spiritual concept.

The audience for this book could include mental health professionals, clients, or simply people who are interested in developing their own understanding of spirituality. Overall, my reaction to Morrison’s book is positive. The intensely detailed narrative accounts of people she has encountered along her spiritual journey help broaden the context of the topic for the reader. This also serves to make the book that much more relatable to all types of people — from the person just exploring the fringes of Eastern spirituality to the fully self-actualized spiritual guru. Either way, this book is highly applicable to those who are interested in fleshing out the spiritual concept of enlightenment in their personal or professional lives.

The book’s structure is relatively linear. Following the introduction and beginning notes, Morrison divides the bulk of the book into three distinct parts: “Glimpsing My Ignorance,” “Helping Others Help Me,” and “Through the Portal of Self-Knowledge.” Within each part, Morrison presents various case studies and real-life stories that help readers conceptualize the information and reflect on their own current levels of understanding the process of enlightenment. We later see that these three parts of the book mirror the three parts of Morrison’s own theory of development.

Morrison uses Piaget’s Cognitive Developmental Stages as a framework to inspire the basis of her work throughout the novel. Ultimately, Morrison coins her own developmental theory, or staging system, which is explained in detail in the introduction.

Evolutionary in nature, Morrison’s theory consists of six dysfunctional stages, with the first being psychosis. Following these six stages of dysfunction, Morrison discusses six neurotic stages. She closes out her theory with six stages of enlightenment.

Mirroring Piaget’s ideas, Morrison uses various case studies throughout the book to demonstrate that content aside, everyone goes through what she sees as the same developmental process. To avoid getting stuck in any one stage, the end result of each stage must always be resolution.

By the end of the book, Morrison believes herself to have achieved some level of enlightenment and self-actualization. If nothing else, she believes that this is an on-going process that she will be continually working toward. The book does lack some of the scientific support behind her theory in some cases, but the overwhelming case study support does supplement her credibility to readers.

The book also gets much heavier at the end, with more in-depth spiritual ideas and Eastern spiritual language. This may lose the reader or turn the reader away at one of the most important parts of the book. Perhaps a more cohesive language and tone throughout the book would have been more beneficial in aiding in the layman’s understanding of such profound spiritual ideas. Overall, though, the book was a positive, quick read. Morrison succeeds in bringing the concept of enlightenment to life for the Western world.

Seeking Enlightenment: The Spiritual Journey of a Psychotherapist
By Catherine Morrison
Two Harbors Publishing:
Paperback, 232 pages
$26.99

Author’s note: This review of George Mason’s autobiography, Life of Death, is not a review of Mason’s life, but rather of his book. It is difficult to critique the book without appearing critical toward the subject or his life. The book is the lone subject toward which criticism is directed.

Life of Death is not a good book. The life contained therein is indeed an interesting and fascinating one, but the way in which the life is presented to the reader is unquestionably flawed, if not downright dreadful.

Mason’s book, subtitled “a lifetime of depression leads to happiness,” is riddled with typos, grammatical mistakes, blatant misuses of words, and just overall poor writing. Life of Death clearly had no editorial phase in its development. Yet that is exactly what the book so desperately needs, as, again, the content is solid. The content is actually in fact quite riveting. But the manner in which that content is presented—the writing and overall flow (or lack thereof)—is severely substandard.

It is difficult not to dwell on these shortcomings, as their presence never lets the reader get absorbed in the book. The reader can never give himself up to Mason and let the author take him on a ride. The writing is too rigid, too shoddy. The flow is nonexistent. The mistakes are without end. Yes, the book is a matter-of-fact overview of one man’s troubled life, and yes, the book is under 35 pages, but neither of these facts should preclude the work from being enjoyable or even readable.

All that said, Mason certainly has lived an interesting life. He is a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. He spent several years in a mental institution. He was bullied as a child. He was continually under the spells of depression and anxiety. And as Mason writes, he had a “conscious desire to want to die.”

It is clear that Mason has endured tough circumstances, and the fact that he never ultimately gave up is commendable. What is so curious, however, is how Mason claims he was able to overcome his demons: God. Mason does not mention religion or God in any context until the final pages, in which he declares: “I realize I am powerless over my entire life and that following Jesus Christ provides me the solution to my problem. Believing in God is a huge decision on my part. My entire life I have been an atheist/agnostic and thought that those who believed were nuts. Now I believe that I have been mistaken.”

While disputing the existence of God or the extent to which religion benefits Mason’s life are not the goals of this review, it must be noted that their roles in the book are horrifyingly glossed over.

Religion obviously plays a substantial role in Mason’s life. Yet he only devotes a handful of sentences to it. Mason ends the book by writing, “I hope that reading this has helped you even in a small way.” But how could it? Mason simply provides a laconic overview of his life written in a detached, unaffected, almost alien manner. His inclusion of his newly found religious faith thus comes off as just another event in a life. It does not seem to provide any significance.

This is not say that it doesn’t; it certainly does, or else Mason would not have said so. But Mason never actually explains anything. He instead talks at the reader. He never takes the reader beneath the surface of his words and shows him the pain in his life. He merely states it.

Furthermore, and to the point previously made about religion, Mason never explains what religion does for him. All he has to say on the subject is, “I have given my life over to God and I realize I am powerless.” But how did he come to this realization? What affirmed it? Why was he not religious earlier in life? What were his previous experiences with religion? How does actually surrendering himself to God allow him to stay away from drugs and alcohol? If the aim is to write a book that in some way helps the reader, then there must be some semblance of an explanation. Mason, however, does not provide one.

When describing his faith, Mason writes:

Luckily for me I started believing in a higher power, God and Jesus Christ, before I knew I was an alcoholic. As a matter of interest the two times I had an acute pancreatic attack was when I was praying. This I take as a significant correlation.

Why, though? Why does Mason defend these events as matters of divine intervention instead of mere coincidence? What makes him so sure? These questions are not meant to dispute Mason’s beliefs, but rather to dig for answers. For if there are no answers, all that is left is a man admonishing his readers to believe in God without providing even the smallest shred of justification or explanation.

It’s fine to believe in God, but one typically has a reason. It would be fair to posit that Mason does, but it would have been more beneficial had he included it.

As might be suspected, Life of Death cannot be recommended. It is unsatisfactory in all areas, including what is stated as most important to the author: helping the reader. This is not an indictment of Mason or his life; it is instead an expression of disappointment in the book.

Life of Death
By George Mason
CreateSpace: January 4, 2012
Paperback, 32 pages
$5.40

I found the book to be both hilarious and sad. There were points when the author’s frustrations were becoming mine. This book is a no-holds barred, educational read that keeps the reader unable to put it down. I tip my hat to Stacy Pershall for sharing such a personal tale with us. It has changed my understanding of these disorders forever.

It seems to me the author was trying to share her very personal journey through early adulthood with BPD, BD, and various other problems. This she accomplishes in both an effective and entertaining manner. She told us her story from top to bottom, leaving nothing out. She also speaks very highly of Dialectical Behavior Therapy, though I’m not sure if she emphasized this as much as she had intended.

Her small-town childhood, her constant questioning of her identity are things that many people can relate to. Not knowing where one belongs, or who one is, are universal questions. Some people have a much easier time answering these questions than others. This is a concept I can personally relate to quite well.

I love Pershall’s honesty. On the medication front alone she offers anecdotes about her use of speed and alcohol; the side effects of prescription meds; the lack of correcting the underlying problem she experienced with pharmeceuticals; and her list of the plethora of meds she was prescribed.

Pershall’s describing Dr. Phillip J. Thornton as her savior of sorts is an experience that I think many people can relate to. Finding that one doctor, therapist, spiritual leader, etc. who seems to understand you, after you’ve been through a hundred professionals who never quite “got you,” is often a turning point in many people’s lives — perhaps a life-saving one.

Her bout with anorexia and bulimia was fully and simply described by the quote “Playing with anorexia is like playing with heroin, fire, plutonium, or Scientology.” — Humorous, yet scarily true. She is so direct and maintains a sense of humor through it all.

I found her connection to certain authors and novels to be interesting also. From Sylvia Plath to Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, she showed a very eclectic interest in books with very independent protagonists. She even mentions William S. Burroughs, an eccentric writer of the Beat generation. It seems as though her brief foray into acting was another way to explore, and even become other, various characters.

Pershall’s mention of “splitting,” a dissociatiove experience common to those with borderline personality disorder, shouldn’t be ignored either. Her reference to splitting just before her breakup with Reese was classic.

I’d like to touch on her relationship with religion in response to he disorders. She said it best on pg. 188 with “IF THIS COULD BE PRAYED AWAY I’D BE WELL. ” It also intrigued me when she mentions her father considering mental illness as a sin. That, to me, is a scary, seriously antiquated thought.

I couldn’t imagine writing this review without touching on her tattooing. I understand where she’s coming from when she discusses on pg. 153 ” . . . something that scared me is exorcised, incorporated, with me forever. ” Getting tattoos seems to be her way of facing, and embracing, her fears.

I will end this with her speaking of BPD as an illness “that should be placed on the spectrum of impulse control disorders.” This seems like a pretty solid idea to me, and she goes on to explain it better, getting into the brain chemistry of it. It must also be noted how strongly she speaks of DBT, and how it changed her “because of two things: the focus on the dialectic, or gray area, between good and bad, and the strict adherence to the rules required.” The author speaks so highly of DBT, it seems as though anybody yet to find treatment for BPD or BD should give DBT a shot.

Loud in the House of Myself: Memoir of a Strange Girl
By Stacey Pershall
W. W. Norton & Company (reprint edition): January 23, 2012
$14.95

“Triggered: A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder” is for anyone who is or knows someone who is suffering from mental illness of any type.  While Wortmann wrestles with OCD, he is more than sympathetic regarding all types of mental illness. In addition to making us understand the problems and loss of so much of his life due to his problems, it’s important to him that mental health professionals try to understand things that they may not have personally experienced. If they can’t feel what the patient feels, it is important that they are careful when trying to help and not make light of things. (His well-meaning social worker decided to call his deepest depression “crumping” because she felt it would be easier for him to call it this when he had too much trouble asking for help.  This did not end well.)

Even as a boy, Wortmann tended to use irony in order to survive his disorder.  While it may seem better than complaining and constantly feeling unhappy with the help provided, to the reader it is obvious that this is exactly what kept Wortmann from really asking for help when needed most. 

His fixations — whether they be the perfection seemingly demanded by Jesus in his religion; his obsession with perfection in school and at home; or his very normal embarrassment by a parent picking him up from school — are not unfamiliar to the average person. But the OCD causes Wortmann to have an extreme, painful and almost fatal reaction to such things. 

It is difficult to judge this book because it is well-written by a man who could be writing fiction and making you laugh or cry depending on the moment.  He admits to trying to kill himself more than once. He can’t be sure that he won’t do so at some point in his life, because no matter how much help he gets, no one can take away what he’s been given — which seems to be an overabundance of guilt and worry. Think of the adolescent fear of dating. Then imagine the impossibility of setting this fear aside long enough to understand that a “no” isn’t the end of the world and asking is the only way to get a “yes.”  This is just a small portion of his life.

I think this book will bring many people to a new understanding of OCD because it is filled with interesting anecdotes and compelling sadness along with hopeful events.

To write anything negative about this book would be difficult since I have suffered my own type of mental illness.  I have suffered physical pain, as have most people at one time or another, but mental pain far surpasses this. Wortmann’s pain hurts me as he says “Does it sound embarrassing, trite, if I claim that I feel a kinship between us?”  This, I am sure, means everyone with mental pain.  It feels as though Wortmann “feels” too much, which is probably due to a lifetime of pain that is difficult to pinpoint and difficult for others to comprehend. It doesn’t sound embarrassing or trite to me, because feeling the pain I felt — and knowing there are people like Wortmann who will live with this pain forever and have never known real peace — is painful to me.

Triggered: A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
By Fletcher Wortmann
Thomas Dunne Books: March 27, 2012
Hardcover, 272 pages
$24.99