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Below are several excerpts from anthology of a Crazy Lady. They are also available as downloadable PDF files -- just click the PDF link above the excerpt.
 

Introduction
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For years, I experienced an inner ache, an incredible sadness, a feeling that would periodically drive me to despair. I had no one to confide in, no one to comfort me. I had no functioning relationship with my parents and few friends. I felt worthless and inadequate. I concentrated on surviving the present, never thinking about the future. I was a zero, a nothing. The world seemed to pass me by without ever acknowledging my presence. There was no way to call out, "Hey, I am a human being. I have feelings. I need someone to love me and hug me." I was invisible. There is nothing comparable to a broken heart. As stated in Psalm 13:12, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick." 

Approaching menopause at forty-five years of age and undergoing a hysterectomy resulted in a hormonal imbalance that triggered a major depressive episode. The symptoms were severe enough for me to seek help. My family practice physician diagnosed the symptoms, prescribed Prozac, and recommended a psychiatric group that would orchestrate my care. The symptoms, which I had experienced for years in varying degrees, had finally been given a label: depression. The realization that I was mentally ill and a recipient of a hereditary curse passed down through the generations forced me to make a decision: Was I willing to break free from the prison of my past and shed all the baggage I had been carrying for years ... or was I going to remain miserable and at a dead end?

Armed with a diagnosis, I ventured into the world of psychiatry. Ten years of long and tumultuous treatment -- from psychotherapy to antidepressant and antipsychotic medications to electric shock therapy, costing thousands of dollars and straining both my family and marriage -- resulted in a changed person: I met the real me. Although an exhausting and heart-wrenching time, my reward was a freedom I never thought affordable.

My illness forced my husband and children to take a hard look at themselves and the family structure. We had to deal with anger and resentment over the lost years, as well as feelings of abandonment, blame, and guilt. Finally, we had to accept the disease. Through it all, we remained an intact family unit.

There is a price to pay to be healed. I needed to dismantle and examine the mountain of baggage accumulated through the years. This was no easy task for a person who had suppressed her whole being for forty-five years. To survive in a world that threatened to extinguish me, I had subconsciously buried and ignored my thoughts and feelings. They were silent strangers living inside me, their silence speaking the incredible desperation of my childhood. Using a prescription of psychotropic drugs, psychotherapy, inner healing, deliverance, and prayer, I emerged a real person. It has been a long, uphill battle with many detours and bumps, but I am finally acquainted with Susan L. Heisler. I am able to accept myself, my feelings, and my actions as "normal."

I feel a sense of loss as to what could have been but was not. I grieve because I will never be able to reclaim those years lost to a sick mind. I cannot take back words spoken, relationships fallen apart, money spent, and precious time lost. Despite frantic efforts to "catch up" from all I missed in childhood to the present, I can never do enough fast enough. Instead, my life has had to start over. I realize, however, how fortunate I am to still be alive and able to utilize my past experiences as stepping stones to a better, healthier life.

My desire is to use my experiences in a positive manner and reach out to those who have been wounded in some way or have struggled in dealing with life. I am offering to you my life as honestly as possible -- included are memories, information from my psychiatric charts, my artwork, and excerpts from dozens of notebooks filled with diary-like literary efforts. Some of you will readily identify with my life; some will be comforted, knowing you are not alone in your situation. For others, it might encourage forgotten thoughts and feelings to rise up from within. In any case, my life is an arduous journey to be shared.

What I have written may be difficult reading and perhaps depressing at times; but the good news is there is a light at the end of the tunnel. There is hope. I, Susan L. Heisler, am alive and well.

Pp 67-70

In therapy I realized that I envisioned myself as either being successful in the quest for control or a total failure. Because of this belief, we discussed my tendency to look at everything in terms of black or white; I firmly believed there were no gray areas, no in-betweens. It was something we could not agree on. 

During three months of therapy, I had not shed one tear. I had not experienced the sadness that usually precedes crying since first starting therapy. It concerned me. I wondered whether I was still capable of crying. I wanted to be able to cry to make the pain go away. I continued to defy, dare, and provoke the psychiatrist and therapist until finally, I was hospitalized. I was playing Russian roulette with my life, and someone decided to step in and stop me. Although I was initially shocked at being committed, a part of me knew I would eventually end up in the hospital. I had felt like a bowling ball that had gotten caught in the gutter and was not able to get out. I never actually hit bottom but was temporarily derailed.

When I was locked up, I was no longer able to run away from myself. The staff would not allow me to use any behavior that interfered with the course of therapy. My release was conditional. If I worked diligently on the issues that put me in the hospital, I could go home within a short amount of time. It meant I was totally responsible for my behavior. 

Issues began bubbling to the surface as I went about the structured routine of confinement. I began looking at whether my actions were still the result of the facade or if I was finally being my real self. I wanted to be sure I was being genuine and not playing games to be accepted. I felt guilty about my efforts to thwart therapy before I was admitted to the hospital. The therapist had worked so hard with me, and I had not given him any opportunity for success. I did not think I deserved his kindness. I searched for someone to tell me how to accept the unconditional love and support Bob and the children constantly offered me. I wanted to be able to stop worrying incessantly about doing something wrong and subsequently losing everything I had ever wanted and hoped for. I had always been quick to blame myself for anything that happened; now I was being told to "go with the flow." My quest for proof that I was lovable and worthwhile and that my birth had not been a mistake temporarily ground to a halt. The personnel were caring enough to seek me out and ask if I had time to talk. They did not pass judgment on anything I said, which, in turn, encouraged me to be more open with them. I was able to trust some of the nurses and confide in them, but it was with the patients that I developed a solid bond of friendship. We were all in the same boat, stripped of our pretenses and facing one another openly. We looked to each other for support and confidence. After seven days, I was allowed to leave. It had been a humbling experience.

After I was discharged, I was faced with Bob's job relocation to Cleveland, Ohio. It was a move I could not accept. My mind could not begin to handle the details of packing and moving. Thinking about the future was almost impossible. I felt as if my circuits were overloaded. We were still dealing with problems in the family that seemed never-ending. Hurricane Hugo had swept through Charlotte, causing thousands of dollars worth of damage to our house. And I was being asked to leave before I had had adequate time to become acquainted with the newly discovered "me." It meant terminating with my therapist and starting all over again. I would be left with feelings I did not know how to handle. Suddenly I would be alone with me, this "person" I barely knew, 450 miles away from the security of Charlotte.

I refused to discuss termination with the therapist, postponing it each time he brought it up. Leaving him gave me the feeling of being lost without a map. No new house or different location would take away the fear I was experiencing. It meant I would be returning to the same old pattern -- moving into a new setting, acting out a play, hating myself for it, and then isolating myself in shame.

I began to fall apart in slow motion; I did not have the strength or the resources to pick up the pieces. I was in a state of disorientation and absolute chaos. I felt as if I was beginning a descent into hell, falling down a dark tunnel toward a bottomless pit. I thought of myself as standing naked before the whole world, completely vulnerable to anything that crossed my path. Although the therapist in Charlotte attempted to prepare me for the move, I was terrified of leaving him. He had dismantled the facade but, because of the transfer, never had the opportunity to put me back together. I was sent 450 miles away with too many loose ends to deal with. I felt abandoned and totally alone, as if I had been pushed out the door and left to fend for myself. It was not a smooth transition. There was no psychiatrist waiting for me at the other end. I was feeling worse instead of better. In fearful desperation, I turned to Bob, demanding that he be a constant support for me and always sensitive to my needs. He was not. My frustration turned from anger to rage toward everyone. I was determined to destroy the origin of my suffering -- me.

Pp 138-141

One of the drawbacks of my illness was using my job as my identity. I was not simply Susan Heisler, nor was I Susan Heisler, wife and mother. I was Susan Heisler, nurse anesthetist. My job validated my existence; without it, I was nothing. It served as a second facade for years, but after twenty years of depending on it, I grew weary of it, too. 
In addition, there were many changes in the field of anesthesia that slowly took away much of the independence anesthetists once enjoyed. Moving from state to state and hospital to hospital, I began resenting the differences I encountered: One hospital encouraged more freedom than another; others demanded complete submission to the doctors. I had been on a ten-hour treadmill for six years trying to please anesthesiologists, surgeons, and nurses but never really succeeding. Now I was experiencing feelings of personal failure and rejection that only served to reinforce my poor self-image. 
I was becoming disenchanted with having to work. I was tired of following schedules, always looking at my watch, trying to plan appointments and time off. Unfortunately, we were in debt and I could see no other solution to our financial woes. There were three kids in college, and our credit cards were up to their limits. 
After a while, the stress of working combined with my psychiatric difficulties was more than I could handle. I was worn out from the ongoing pain and had lost hope for any change. Destroying myself offered the only escape from my miserable existence. Relieving the torment by drinking too much, spending too much money, and taking careless chances was not working. I needed to just do it and I knew exactly what I would do to accomplish it. However, the thought of burning in hell for the rest of my life dampened my resolve, and I abandoned my medically correct plans for a more haphazard way to die.
Killing myself became an obsession. I carefully thought through every aspect of it. It kept me awake at night and was in my thoughts all day long. Nothing anyone said or did made me reconsider my goal. I was not, however, rational in my thinking. I could not kill myself on certain days because I was scheduled to work or I had a doctor's appointment. There was no place to go to be alone, and I did not even know whether I wanted to be alone when I died. When one therapist suggested that I did not really want to kill myself but only the portion of myself (the child) that was producing the pain, I stalled momentarily. 
Several of my attempts at self-annihilation came frighteningly close to achieving their purpose. It made me think about how much power I had to kill myself and whether I would die by making a fatal mistake rather than a deliberate effort. Again, guardian angels must have protected me from my stupidity. I could have been arrested for drunken driving numerous times; I could have killed myself in a car accident; I could have died from a lethal combination of sedatives and alcohol; I could have been hit by numerous cars while walking; or I could have died as a result of a gunshot wound. Whatever I tried to do to myself, I always seemed to fail.
In 1993, just before I left Cleveland, I wrote this piece for the associate. He called it an "accurate assessment of illness-related loss, the pros and cons of suicide with an abandonment theme."

[I take a key, a highly polished symbol of the sum of my failure to be a normal person and put it into the writhing, resisting keyhole of my mind. My hand is shaking and I am perspiring. What is in there that could cause my stomach to rebel, my limbs to quiver? I see nothing beyond the door, a vast blank scenario filled with faceless people. But wait. In one corner is the sound of screaming, the wail of the anguished. Shadows pass by my eyes causing me to shudder. I feel so helpless, floating through paths of bloody remnants of my past.

Why did I unlock the door, that forbidding entrance to my life filled with sadness and mourning for the lost child of the night? I can hear her calling me, asking me to help her and to hold and comfort her. She is a mere shadow in the vastness of the earth. Her eyes plead with the shred of sanity that remains within me. She cries out for love and acceptance. 

I feel a web of constraint. I cannot reach her; she is inaccessible, remaining just behind my grasp. I cry out in frustration. Why are you doing this to me? I can't stand the anxiety, the strain, the pulling of my emotions. I feel like I could explode into a million tiny pieces. I can't do it. 

I am a failure. She has floated away, escaping my grasp. I stagger into darkness. I do the unspeakable. I put a gun to my heart. One bullet will end my sadness and inner conflict.

"You can't do that," Joanna called from afar. "I will die without you."

"Mom, I love you," whispers Jason.

"Mom, aren't I your Jenny-rabbit who sat on your lap until I was eleven years old?"

"Mom, I have problems learning and need your guidance," Jared insists.

"Susan, I will leave you if you don't stop this nonsense. Stop playing with my emotions," Bob said.

Why can't I pull the trigger? Voices inside my head are screaming at me. 
I throw the gun away. It explodes into a myriad of colors -- reds and blues and greens cling to me like moss on a tree. I take refuge in the remains of my damage. I lie down sobbing, gripping the spectacular colors in my hand. Where is the resolve I've maintained for years to destroy myself? Have I found crevices in my protective covering daring me to look beyond the catastrophic ruins of my life? Am I besieged with some love of myself that has escaped the smoldering pile of discarded emotions and events?

I run away in fear. I am not loveable, shouts my mind. The web of healing hovers near. In my madness, I trip and fall, waiting for punishment to descend from on high. Bolts of lightening, angry recriminations, they never seem to come. I lay curled up within myself. "I can shield myself from anything and anyone," shouts my body. My mind yells, "No you can't. You're only human."]
 

Pp 138-141

Since the age of twenty-four, I have been an overachiever at the expense of my family. For a long time I thought I was goal-oriented; but then I realized that, even as an adult, I was still trying to earn approval from my parents. When my father died and my mother drifted into Alzheimer's, I began to wonder why I continued striving to achieve. I no longer needed their approval, so what was motivating me? I began asking myself some questions: Am I earning my place in the human race? Do I need to continually validate my existence? Am I looking for recognition and acceptance from those around me? Am I trying to convince myself that I am not dumb and I do possess some good qualities? Am I still trying to make up for all those "lost" years of the past? 

Many times, guilt has washed over me for putting my family through all kinds of hell, seemingly for my own purposes. I have been selfish and totally self-centered by focusing on my accomplishments rather than the children and my husband. I believe my illness propels me to take on multiple, seemingly impossible tasks. During a hypomanic episode, I view everything as a challenge. I have great ideas, formulate a zillion plans, and start many projects. I cannot look at anything without constantly visualizing improvements, expanding it, or creating something out of it. The thoughts keep coming as if they were on a conveyer belt. I am not able to simply sit and let my mind rest; I literally vibrate in place.

Just as fast as my ideas rush out, I am driven to act on them right away. There is no organized plan involved, just this need to begin them. I am intense and focused, but very impatient as I work. I have no time to waste. While busy with one project, I might get an idea for another and start it, leaving the first unfinished. I may have ten projects going at one time and, although it might take me a long time, I will complete each one eventually. 

Our garage is filled with materials to be used for my projects. Bob is frustrated because he cannot walk through the garage without tripping over pieces of wood or slabs of slate; all he sees are a string of projects spread all over the house. I once had a visitor, also bipolar, who remarked when she walked into the house, "It is an active house, busy, but organized. There's a lot to look at." She could see the telltale signs of hypomania.

Likewise, I speak impulsively. Words tend to leave my mouth before I have thought out their effect. For years, I have condemned myself for this. I have constantly struggled to tame my tongue. When I am angry, unhappy, or impatient I am inclined to be sarcastic. My words can be hurtful and offensive to people without me ever being aware of it. Even my joking has been misunderstood. At times, Bob has had to pull me aside and ask me to tone down my remarks. It is a spin-off from my facade.

Coming to terms with the hypomanic side of the illness has been a blessing. I have finally come to understand the mechanism behind years of racing thoughts, high anxiety levels, feeling like I am running in place without going anywhere (the treadmill routine), or constantly moving and achieving until I fall flat on my face from exhaustion (the roadrunner routine). I realize that my spending, drinking, drawing, and writing habits respond accordingly to the degree of mania I am experiencing. 

My tendency to rapid cycle remains steadfastly on the sidelines. In actuality, it is not a "cycle" but a random and somewhat chaotic pattern of hypomanic episodes. Rapid cycling, with its sudden and unpredictable mood changes, is more difficult to treat than other types of bipolar illness. I know now that my long, frustrating, and tortuous path to relative stability is due to this one particular fact. Interspersed in the hypomanic and depressive episodes are subtle vestiges of borderline personality disorder, another disorder difficult to manage. As with depression, there is a genetic predisposition to borderline personality disorder, and it is more common in females. Those classified as "borderline" are often sicker than a neurotic person but not sick enough to be psychotic. The disorder is considered to be an instability of mood, thinking, behavior, personal relationships, and self-image. Identifying it requires extensive knowledge of the person's past. I was diagnosed at age forty-eight, meeting eight out of eight of the criteria as listed in the dsm-iii.

What concerns me is the unpredictability of my diagnosis. I am not always conscious of the symptoms when they decide to surface. It is embarrassing to display signs of the illness and not be able to deal with them before others pick up on it. I like to think I am in total control of myself, but mental illness has made me very humble.
I fear the return of those ten years of misery I experienced. It was as if a black cloud had followed me throughout my life, but when I had my hysterectomy and resulting hormonal imbalance, the cloud totally enveloped me, and I could not escape it. I need constant reassurance that I will never go through a period of time like that again, but there are no guarantees. My future is "guarded" according to psychiatry.

According to the guidelines used in diagnosing and treating mental illnesses, my biological makeup and psychiatric history predispose me to future episodes of depression and hypomania. I prefer to believe that although I will most likely be on low-dose medication for the remainder of my life, my "highs" and "lows" will not be as incapacitating.

The key ingredient to my progress was being loved back to life. I was fortunate to have two psychiatrists who cared enough about me to provide fair and consistent counseling. My inner healing team prayed me through tough times. God extended His love in a way I never thought possible. My job, which started and ended traumatically, was the most stressful factor in my life. It served me at a time I needed financial security and personal recognition, but it had outlived its usefulness.

Pp 165-166
Thinking about my life, I am impressed by my survival. What did I have to live for? Life had been a series of negative and distorted events, and yet I remained alive. The thought of suicide never intruded until I was almost fifty years of age, and, my many self-destructive acts notwithstanding, something kept me from completely giving in to death. All the generational curses, traumatic circumstances, and perceived personal shortcomings could not snuff out a tiny flicker of hope that remained in my heart. I know now that that hope came from God Himself. Psalm 62:5 says, "Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him." That tiny flicker of hope fueled my persistence to survive.

At times, I lament that it took me fifty-eight years of wandering in the desert to get where I am today; however, when I realized I needed to change in order to get better, I was more than ready to do it. I accepted the reprogramming through psychotherapy, medication, and God, knowing it would ensure my survival.

Once I achieved the stability and self-confidence I had so longed for over the years, I felt the need to put my life into words. This time, I did not have to resort to third-person representation. I sat down and wrote as I remembered it, leaving nothing out. The healing power of writing has been amazing.

At first, I was hesitant to mention God in this book. I remember, all too vividly during my illness, that if His name was ever mentioned, I immediately shut down. I did not want to hear anything about a God who forgot me and allowed me to suffer. I was sure that anyone who picked up this book and read it would react in a similar manner and be turned off. Been there, done that.

But I also could not deny the truth. For years I turned God away because He was not a quick-fix cure or a lucky rabbit's foot. I was convinced He would not be able to heal me. Besides, I did not know if I even wanted to be healed. I was more comfortable being miserable. Most importantly, I could not face the subsequent disappointment and feeling of rejection if I did ask Him to intervene and He did not honor my request. I have learned that many of my ideas of God were wrong.

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