An unquiet mind

Review by Booklist Review

Psychologist Jamison's controversial Touched with Fire (1993) explored the hypothetical link between artistic creativity and mood disorders, speculating that manic-depressive illness, which may be inherited, somehow enables art while ravaging the artist. Perhaps written in response to opponents of biological psychiatry and accusations of romanticizing the creative possibilities of serious mental illness, her new book recounts her own frightening experience as a manic depressive--a condition she regards as genetically rooted and has publicly disclosed only recently because of her professional position. Although Jamison illuminates the disorder's addictive aspects (which stem from the unusual clarity of thought and increased capabilities it can cause in the manic phase), much of her memoir recalls the horrors of intense depression, which often lead to suicide attempts, as indeed they did in her case ("My body is uninhabitable," she recalls feeling, "raging and weeping and full of destruction and wild energy gone amok" ). Her intermittent refusals to continue prescribed medication cost her relationships and threatened her sanity, but finally, she accepted a Lithium-dependent, relatively stable life. Her account is an act of both personal and professional bravery. (Reviewed August 1995)0679443746Whitney Scott

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Jamison's memoir springs from her dual perspective as both a psychiatric expert in manic depression and a sufferer of the disease. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

This incredibly insightful work chronicles the life of a psychologist and professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University who suffers from manic depression. Jamison began experiencing mood swings during adolescence but, despite her education and training, did not seek help until she had completed her doctorate and began teaching at UCLA. Like so many others suffering from manic depression, she felt initially that the depressions were only passing phases she'd have to work out herself. She experienced the manic phases as great periods of creativity and accomplishment and feared they would be deadened by using medication. (In an earlier book, Touched with Fire, LJ 2/15/93, Jamison explored the relationship between manic depression and creativity.) Jamison finally comes to grips with her illness and recognizes the importance of medication used in conjunction with psychotherapy. This combination of treatment controls her illness and has enabled her to succeed. Her story and writing style are both inspirational and educational. Highly recommended for all libraries.-Jennifer Amador, Central State Hosp. Medical Lib., Petersburg, Va. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Mood-disorder specialist Jamison (Psychiatry/Johns Hopkins) comes clean about her own mood disorder: manic-depression. Less bitter and defensive than Kate Millett (The Loony-Bin Trip, 1990) in writing of this illness, Jamison has one thing in common with her: the reluctance to take lithium, despite her knowledge as a professional that it would control her extremes of mood. Why the refusal? Because, Jamison says, the periods of mild mania, or hypomania, are ""absolutely intoxicating states that gave rise to great personal pleasure, an incomparable flow of thoughts, and a ceaseless energy."" Jamison now takes her lithium dutifully, however, after being hobbled for years by cycles of extreme mania (sleepless nights, mental chaos, shopping sprees with bills totaling over $30,000) and suicidal depression. The illness began to manifest itself after the delicate balance of her family life was disrupted. In a highly fluid, readable memoir, Jamison wonderfully describes her childhood as an Air Force brat, capturing both the ""romance and discipline"" of military life. But in 1961, when she was 15, Jamison's father retired from the Air Force and the family moved to California. Her father, an imaginative, playful, charismatic man, began displaying signs of manic-depression, and a few years later, so did Jamison. Always passionate, curious, independent-minded, she was now subject to crippling mood switches as she began a successful academic career and passed through a failed marriage, love affairs, and a new marriage. Jamison is convincing on the seductiveness of hypomania. But the author of Touched with Fire (1993), which claimed a link between the artistic temperament and manic-depression, goes too far here in claiming a superiority of experience for herself: that she has lived more truly and intensely than folks whose moods are better calibrated (""I have run faster, thought faster, loved faster than most""). But overall, a well-written, vivid depiction of a devastating mental illness. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Into the Sun I was standing with my head back, one pigtail caught between my teeth, listening to the jet overhead. The noise was loud, unusually so, which meant that it was close. My elementary school was near Andrews Air Force Base, just outside Washington; many of us were pilots' kids, so the sound was a matter of routine. Being routine, however, didn't take away from the magic, and I instinctively looked up from the playground to wave. I knew, of course, that the pilot couldn't see me-I always knew that-just as I knew that even if he could see me the odds were that it wasn't actually my father. But it was one of those things one did, and anyway I loved any and all excuses just to stare up into the skies. My father, a career Air Force officer, was first and foremost a scientist and only secondarily a pilot. But he loved to fly, and, because he was a meteorologist, both his mind and his soul ended up being in the skies. Like my father, I looked up rather more than I looked out. When I would say to him that the Navy and the Army were so much older than the Air Force, had so much more tradition and legend, he would say, Yes, that's true, but the Air Force is the future. Then he would always add: And-we can fly. This statement of creed would occasionally be followed by an enthusiastic rendering of the Air Force song, fragments of which remain with me to this day, nested together, somewhat improbably, with phrases from Christmas carols, early poems, and bits and pieces of the Book of Common Prayer: all having great mood and meaning from childhood, and all still retaining the power to quicken the pulses. So I would listen and believe and, when I would hear the words "Off we go into the wild blue yonder," I would think that "wild" and "yonder" were among the most wonderful words I had ever heard; likewise, I would feel the total exhilaration of the phrase "Climbing high, into the sun" and know instinctively that I was a part of those who loved the vastness of the sky. The noise of the jet had become louder, and I saw the other children in my second-grade class suddenly dart their heads upward. The plane was coming in very low, then it streaked past us, scarcely missing the playground. As we stood there clumped together and absolutely terrified, it flew into the trees, exploding directly in front of us. The ferocity of the crash could be felt and heard in the plane's awful impact; it also could be seen in the frightening yet terrible lingering loveliness of the flames that followed. Within minutes, it seemed, mothers were pouring onto the playground to reassure children that it was not their fathers; fortunately for my brother and sister and myself, it was not ours either. Over the next few days it became clear, from the release of the young pilot's final message to the control tower before he died, that he knew he could save his own life by bailing out. He also knew, however, that by doing so he risked that his unaccompanied plane would fall onto the playground and kill those of us who were there. The dead pilot became a hero, transformed into a scorchingly vivid, completely impossible ideal for what was meant by the concept of duty. It was an impossible ideal, but all the more compelling and haunting because of its very unobtainability. The memory of the crash came back to me many times over the years, as a reminder both of how one aspires after and needs such ideals, and of how killingly difficult it is to achieve them. I never again looked at the sky and saw only vastness and beauty. From that afternoon on I saw that death was also and always there. Although, like all military families, we moved a lot-by the fifth grade my older brother, sister, and I had attended four different elementary schools, and we had lived in Florida, Puerto Rico, California, Tokyo, and Washington, twice-our parents, especially my mother, kept life as secure, warm, and con Excerpted from An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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