Van Gogh was Crazy, Too, You Know

According to a study published Monday in Nature Neuroscience, a genetic link can be found between creativity and the cray-cray. The full study is behind a paywall, so I can't parse it for you myself. However, Science Alert has a rundown of the study, and The Verge makes some fair points in criticizing it. Basically, the study looked at people with genetic markers for schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, and then looked at people working in "creative" industries, such as art, acting, music, dance, and writing. It found that people working in these industries were more likely to carry these genetic variants than people in other types of jobs.

Greeeeeat, I thought as I looked at these articles. More pressure to be brilliant.

I'm the only child of an exceptionally talented artist. My father paints, plays music, and is an internationally published poet. One of my aunts was a professional dancer. Another is a TV editor. Another of my aunts and my cousin are both graphic artists. My uncle is a musician and an actor. I come from a family of "creatives." From the day I was born, there was pressure on me to have some sort of artistic talent.

When it became clear that I was also mentally ill, the pressure mounted.

We've always known there was a link between creativity and insanity. Vincent van Gogh is the first person who usually comes to mind (he's even the cover image on the Science Alert article), but the link has been noted throughout human history. It's a well-worn cliche that if you're crazy, you're brilliant in some fashion.

And I'm just... not. Sure, I write, and cut up tee-shirts, and make videos. Occasionally I can be found absolutely killing the Karaoke party with my rendition of Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black" (I also kill 'em with "Rehab," but that's because it's hilarious). But I'm nowhere near the level that I've observed is expected of me based on my genetics, and now, apparently, more genetics.

"Van Gogh was crazy, too, you know." Yes, I know! Everybody knows.

Not everybody with bipolar disorder or schizophrenia is a van Gogh. We can't all be. The National Alliance on Mental Illness states that about 13.6 million adults in the United States alone "live with a serious mental illness such as schizophrenia, major depression or bipolar disorder." There are not 13.6 million van Goghs anywhere. There was only one, and we're not him.

But I think that's okay. It has to be okay. I can do my fun projects, and you can do yours, and maybe one or two of our 13.6 million-plus brothers and sisters will be at Vincent level. It will never be me, but at least I'm doing my best and having a pretty good time of it.

"I Feel Fine!"

When you first begin taking medication for bipolar disorder, people will tell you a lot of things. They will tell you that you might start to feel like a guinea pig or a lab rat, constantly being experimented on with different dosages and different medications and combinations of medications. They will tell you that the side effects can be pretty severe, but that you can mitigate these with further treatments. They will tell you that at some point you will start to feel better, and will be tempted to go off the medication, but that you must never ever do so without first consulting your doctor.

What they don't say about this last bit is that it's not merely temptation. It's not as simple as feeling fine and thinking you probably don't need the meds anymore. Your brain may actively fight you on this. It knows all of the rationalizations. It reminds you of how much easier it was to deal with yourself when you knew the rabble-rabble rage and the deathy-deathy despair were right around the corner. And don't you miss the euphoria of a manic episode, when you're fifty feet tall and can repel bullets, and the world-- no, the universe-- exists solely for your pleasure?

You can't be creative unless you feel too much, your brain informs you. Until you are utterly stupefied with emotional overload, you cannot truly create brilliant work. You feel fine, but are you fine? Are you really? Those side effects aren't particularly mitigated, are they? Why, your panic attacks are even more frequent now you've gone on these pills. You only used to have one every few months. Now you have at least three per week, if not more. And you look fat. You're probably gaining weight again.

The meds are not really helping you. It's you doing the things, not the pills. All you have to do is go off them, and keep doing as you're doing, but doing it better because you are yourself. You're not yourself without the mood swings and the destructive behavior. You're not yourself without seventeen elaborate scenarios in your head about how this day will go wrong. You're definitely not yourself without a death fantasy for everything that does go wrong.

You don't need the pills anymore, says your brain. You never needed them in the first place.

These are the lies and half-truths you will tell yourself after a month on crazy pills, and no one ever said a word of warning to me about it. Don't listen to your jerkbrain. Stay on your meds. Adjust them if necessary. Talk to your people. Your people are there to help you, and they want you to be well. Your brain is fighting you because it's terrified. Keep fighting back. Show it that a pill or two isn't going to best you; it's going to better you.

I'm telling you this because I need to be told this. Maybe you do, too. Maybe when it gets to that dark place, we can tell each other.

It Gets Worse

Last month, professional atheist JT Eberhard gave a much-touted talk at Skepticon IV about mental illness, and called for people with mental disorders to share their stories. This is one of mine.

Since I was a little kid I have wanted to die, but I first understood I could kill myself when I was twelve. That year, an acquaintance of my dad’s shot himself in the head. I realized I did not need to beg imaginary beings to get me out of this life when there was a way out right there in the medicine cabinet (we didn’t have a gun). It seemed so obvious, to do it my damn self. Right in my face the whole time, and I never saw it until Dad’s friend blew his own brains out. I thought it was genius.

22 years later, I still think that guy had the right idea. College is going well enough, and I love my husband and family, but none of it matters to my brain. At least once a day, I seriously consider suicide as an alternative to spending one more conscious minute on this ridiculous piece of shit planet.

Sometimes crazy people neglect hygiene and various ailments. My upper teeth have rotted away so that when I smile, I look like a zombie. This is a little bit cool on Halloween or on a movie set, but not so fantastic at a job interview. The bleeding and pain are never even a little bit cool. I have trouble leaving the house a lot of the time, because I cannot bear people looking at me. It will cost over $4000 to extract the teeth and over $1700 to get dentures put in. I am 34 years old and I have to get dentures because I am batshit.

Two weeks ago, I had a five-day-long panic attack. I could not sleep, I barely ate, and what I did eat I vomited soon after. My husband tried to help by dragging me out of the house, but there was no shutting up the noise in my head. I did not know what to do, and so I considered eating my husband’s entire bottle of Xanax to make it stop. Instead, I took three pills and passed out.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I felt much calmer after I got some sleep.

Living with mental illness sucks, but skepticism saves the day almost every day. I can’t reason myself out of a panic attack, but I can determine that, indeed, the Wendy’s has not disappeared or ceased to exist, that my brain is being a douchebag once again, and that I should pull over until it quits doing that. There is comfort in having a framework to better distinguish reality from delusion. Skepticism does not always alleviate the guilt I feel for being crazy, but it helps me to understand that the guilt is irrational, unhelpful, and perfectly understandable given society’s views on the mentally unstable.

The ability to question my own assumptions has kept me ticking. Maybe on dark days that disappoints me, but what do I know? I’m crazy.