The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness

by Elyn R. Saks

The fundamental flaw in all of this, though, is that it neglects something intrinsic to the complex real world and to complex real human beings. In fact, it is not necessarily true that everything can be conquered with willpower. There are forces of nature and circumstance that are beyond our control, let alone our understanding, and to insist on victory in the face of this, to accept nothing less, is just asking for a soul-pummeling. The simple truth is, not every fight can be won.

But for me, “becoming one” with a man felt like a loss of self, and it was sometimes terrifying, as though something unspeakable lay just on the other side of it, as though I could fall into an abyss.

When you’re really crazy, respect is like a lifeline someone’s throwing you. Catch this and maybe you won’t drown.

Think about having a bad flu, on a day when you can’t stay home huddled under the covers. You have business, you have responsibilities. And so, summoning up reserves you didn’t know you had, you somehow make it through the day, sweating, shaking, nodding politely to colleagues while barely controlling the nausea—because you know that if you can just pull it off, then you can go home, where your couch (or your bed, or a hot bath, or whatever you define as comfort and safety) is waiting. You hold it together, and then, once you’re home, you collapse.

That was when I learned that for all my good intentions, I could be simultaneously on the receiving and the giving end of the stigma that goes along with mental illness.

The conundrum: Say what’s on your mind and there’ll be consequences; struggle to keep the delusions to yourself, and it’s likely you won’t get the help you need.

I’d always been optimistic that when and if the mystery of me was solved, it could be fixed; now I was being told that whatever had gone wrong inside my head was permanent and, from all indications, unfixable. Repeatedly, I ran up against words like “debilitating,” “baffling,” “chronic,” “catastrophic,” “devastating,” and “loss.” For the rest of my life. The rest of my life. It felt more like a death sentence than a medical diagnosis.

“This isn’t terminal cancer, Elyn—and people have come back strong even from that diagnosis, you know. What you’ve got, that’s a piece of cake by comparison. You can beat it with the right attitude. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself!”

Was my brain the same thing as my mind? Could I hang onto the one while conceding that there was a big flaw in the other?

I could hardly tell her how hard it was to relax and enjoy a meal or a meeting with colleagues while your demons bang on the closet door and demand to be let out.

When you have cancer, people send flowers; when you lose your mind, they don’t.