Mary Cregan remembers periods of interesting sadness, dating all the way back to childhood. The sadness would arrive, and then leave, like bad weather. Mental illness had been a main theme in her family. But Cregan held things together and made her way to Middlebury, graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and found herself married.
Then the shit hit the fan. Cregan gave birth--and, within a few days, her baby was dead. And depression stormed in. There was one failed suicide attempt. A period of hospitalization, in which Cregan was inadequately supervised. Cregan's mother--unthinkingly--brought a glass bottle of lotion to the hospital, as a gift to Cregan. A suicide relapse: Cregan broke the bottle, took a shard of glass, and drew it across her neck. But she survived.
Miraculously, life improved. There were bouts with ECT. There was heavy medication. Cregan began graduate school; she became a lecturer in English literature. She had a child who lived. When he was sixteen, this kid asked her about the large scar on her neck. Taken aback, she said, "Oh, that? I don't remember where it came from."
Cregan knew this was an unsatisfactory answer--and, on one level, Cregan's new book, "The Scar," is like an edit. It's a new, acceptable answer for her son. Cregan goes through her story unsparingly, and a great deal of the book's drama comes from the sense of self-conflict: Cregan, a formerly "good Catholic" girl, doesn't really want to spill the beans. But she does. And then spills, and spills, and spills some more.
One current I loved, throughout, was Cregan's willingness to take apart silly myths about mental illness. For example, she goes after critics of ECT, and particularly the Milos Forman film "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Cregan's message: ECT works, it's humane, and it's not nearly as dramatic as (for example) chemotherapy.
Additionally, Cregan has only moderate patience for critics of various antidepressant medications. Her no-nonsense takeaway: "I don't really care if it's a placebo. Antidepressants have helped me. End of story." (Who could argue with that?)
Like many other readers, I imagine, I found parts of my own history reflected in Cregan's writing. I know a bit about coming from a family in which mental illness has a starring, and unpredictable, role; I also know how depression can rear its head, in intriguing ways, long before the really traumatic event sends you spinning off your axis. And I admired Cregan's efforts to fight stigma: When I was hemming and hawing about taking an antidepressant (because of the stigma), I had a valued helper who said, "You're climbing a mountain, and you don't do that without some supplemental oxygen. This is your oxygen" -- and this was good advice, so, yes, do take on stigma whenever you can!
At times, Cregan is a bit too exhaustive in her research; I maybe didn't need the lengthy history of the philosophy of mental-asylum-landscape design. But Cregan is a scholar: smart, sensitive, contrarian. Even when she's a bit boring, she's still good company. And so--with just a few "demerit points" for occasional dryness--I can recommend Cregan's book, "The Scar." I'm glad I read this memoir.
Then the shit hit the fan. Cregan gave birth--and, within a few days, her baby was dead. And depression stormed in. There was one failed suicide attempt. A period of hospitalization, in which Cregan was inadequately supervised. Cregan's mother--unthinkingly--brought a glass bottle of lotion to the hospital, as a gift to Cregan. A suicide relapse: Cregan broke the bottle, took a shard of glass, and drew it across her neck. But she survived.
Miraculously, life improved. There were bouts with ECT. There was heavy medication. Cregan began graduate school; she became a lecturer in English literature. She had a child who lived. When he was sixteen, this kid asked her about the large scar on her neck. Taken aback, she said, "Oh, that? I don't remember where it came from."
Cregan knew this was an unsatisfactory answer--and, on one level, Cregan's new book, "The Scar," is like an edit. It's a new, acceptable answer for her son. Cregan goes through her story unsparingly, and a great deal of the book's drama comes from the sense of self-conflict: Cregan, a formerly "good Catholic" girl, doesn't really want to spill the beans. But she does. And then spills, and spills, and spills some more.
One current I loved, throughout, was Cregan's willingness to take apart silly myths about mental illness. For example, she goes after critics of ECT, and particularly the Milos Forman film "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Cregan's message: ECT works, it's humane, and it's not nearly as dramatic as (for example) chemotherapy.
Additionally, Cregan has only moderate patience for critics of various antidepressant medications. Her no-nonsense takeaway: "I don't really care if it's a placebo. Antidepressants have helped me. End of story." (Who could argue with that?)
Like many other readers, I imagine, I found parts of my own history reflected in Cregan's writing. I know a bit about coming from a family in which mental illness has a starring, and unpredictable, role; I also know how depression can rear its head, in intriguing ways, long before the really traumatic event sends you spinning off your axis. And I admired Cregan's efforts to fight stigma: When I was hemming and hawing about taking an antidepressant (because of the stigma), I had a valued helper who said, "You're climbing a mountain, and you don't do that without some supplemental oxygen. This is your oxygen" -- and this was good advice, so, yes, do take on stigma whenever you can!
At times, Cregan is a bit too exhaustive in her research; I maybe didn't need the lengthy history of the philosophy of mental-asylum-landscape design. But Cregan is a scholar: smart, sensitive, contrarian. Even when she's a bit boring, she's still good company. And so--with just a few "demerit points" for occasional dryness--I can recommend Cregan's book, "The Scar." I'm glad I read this memoir.
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