Feeling and not feeling...

Near the end of one of the chapters in Kay Redfield Jamison's book, An Unquiet Mind, and about three-quarters of the way through, she refers to a piece of music I wanted to follow-up on:

"That night, waiting for my moody, intense Englishman to appear--needlepointing, watching the snow fall, listening to Chopin and Elgar--I suddenly was aware of how clear and poignant the music seemed, how intensely, beautifully melancholic it was to watch the snow and wait for him. I was feeling more beauty, but more real sadness as well. When he arrived...I put on Schubert's posthumous Piano Sonata in B-flat, D. 960. Its haunting, beautiful eroticism absolutely filled me with emotion and made me weep. I wept for the poignancy of all the intensity I had lost without knowing it, and I wept for the pleasure of experiencing it again. To this day, I cannot hear that piece of music without feeling surrounded by the beautiful sadness of that evening, the love I was privileged to know, and the recollection of the precarious balance that exists between sanity and subtle, dreadful muffling of the senses." (p. 163)

Here is the piece I think she was referring to (although if I have it wrong, please let me know). Perhaps you might like to stop all other doings, turn up the volume, and listen with full attention?

If you feel sad while listening or full or or thankful or joyful or you feel longing, keep breathing. Breathe fully with the feelings. Remember to breathe.

Venn diagrams and a wonderful book

This morning, I awoke early. Shortly after 4 a.m., I absorbed the quiet of the early morning accompanied by the beautiful song of birds, and the beauty of a crescent moon shining brilliantly in a clear sky. How wonderful.

I did, also, go back to sleep. How glad I am, however, for that early morning awakening and time.

Yesterday, I finished reading An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison, subtitled A Memoir of Moods and Madness. (For people in the Kingston area, it is available at the local library, KFPL). This is a book I highly recommend. She wrote this book so truly well. It was an absolute delight to read. I offer her my deep respect for her courage, genuineness, and tenacity. This book is at least partially about manic-depressive illness, her life and experiences of it, as well as her work as a clinician and researcher and her journey of reconciling and navigating both. I have in mind here a picture of a venn diagram where there are two circles and they partially overlap in the center. Do you remember those? Perhaps because of my own work as a therapist and my status as firmly also a human being subject to all that that may entail, I reflect on the overlapping part often enough--the place where we are (and hold) our whole self, all of us, with all of our different identities, experiences, roles and parts.

Kay has considered at length the question of whether she should work as a clinician given she has a mental illness. She puts forth the firm tenet that work as a clinician must be for and about assisting clients and patients: "Doctors, as my chairman is fond of pointing out, are there to treat patients: patients should never have to pay--either literally or medically--for the problems and sufferings of their doctors" (p. 209-210). I also agree. Kay has worked very hard to make sure she succeeds in this. As she writes she has been careful and been fortunate. She has sought out much support and put many safeguards in place. She is also now a world expert in her field and someone who has contributed enormously to assisting people with mood disorders and especially manic-depression. Additionally, she is an advocate of psychotherapy including clinicians participating in this. I say, kudos to her. She was refreshingly real, and her book, reflections, and disclosures intelligent, thoughtful, moving, funny, poignant, and, once again, courageous.

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A quick glance at some of the comments people have made on amazon.ca leads me to add one caveat. I also agree that Kay has been fortunate in the support she has had around her (family, colleagues etc), the professional support she has been able to access, the sabbaticals she was able to take, as well as the financial security and stability her particular jobs offered her. This occurred to me also while reading. I do not begrudge her or think her less courageous but I do wish to acknowledge how isolated many people can be, including people with this illness, and how difficult it can be for them to access resources, assistance, and support. If you are one of those people, I wish to say, I am truly sorry it is so terribly hard. I offer you my encouragement and my deep hope that you will find a way to persevere in life one small step at a time, and that grace will enter in all the ways it can--whether from a sunrise that is glorious and pulls one into life, or a meal (or meals) provided by another, or a helpful helping professional that you meet, a job that you like and can manage, the balm of friendship, or from all other manner of helpful things. I am thinking of you.