By Rahla Xenopoulos
In 1992, Rahla Xenopoulos used to be clinically determined with bipolar affliction. regardless of the devastating analysis, she sought schooling on her sickness. even though she chanced on an abundance of literature on numerous psychological health problems, none of it appeared acceptable to her. this case encouraged her to write down a ebook chronicling her ongoing efforts to return to phrases with a ailment that's, in impression, a lifestyles sentence. The e-book recounts her upbringing in an eccentric, loving Jewish relatives, her fight with bulimia, anorexia and self-mutilation, her makes an attempt at suicide, discovering real love and, eventually, the 'crazy, completely unpredictable event of giving beginning to triplets'. this can be neither a self-help booklet nor a medical consultant. examining this booklet won't medication someone; bipolar sickness is a protracted disorder. however it did support Rahla – because it will numerous others – 'to comprehend the rhythm within the cacophony of this condition'.
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Extra resources for A Memoir of Love and Madness. Living with Bipolar Disorder
Now I fear the time has come for me to read what’s already been written, and I’m afraid I’ll be put off writing because of the awkwardness of the sentence structure, the clunky vocabulary and the frivolous self-centredness. My trembling hand will never again find the page. It’s such a tenuous thread, the yarn that keeps me writing, as tenuous as my link to sanity. But then the sun comes out, the camellias blossom and the empty page beckons. Don’t be fooled into thinking that this story about madness is a sad one.
Why I couldn’t marry him when I grew up was a mystery to me. When it was time for David’s bar mitzvah, I made him a crown and mud cakes. He wore the crown for a little while before the party, but didn’t eat the cakes. Later in life he became a hippie. He had a mane of curly brown hair like Samson’s, and, like Samson, he refused to cut it short. He wore ripped jeans, played a lot of pinball and listened to rock music. He played the drums and the piano magnificently, and had inherited Daddy’s wicked sense of humour.
Like a looking glass, the inner eye recalls children skipping through the rainbows formed by sprinklers gushing water onto lawns. Maybe my happiest inaccuracies lie predominantly among my family, even though we were and remain picture-book perfect. Happier and better adjusted and more in love with one another than all the sitcoms we grew up watching: The Brady Bunch, Eight Is Enough, even The Cosby Show. Pnina is my pretty oldest sister. In childhood, I used to stare at her long chestnut hair while she lay sleeping, like a princess from a faraway land.