OK, that's an overly dramatic title. But it's sorta how I feel after a friend pinged me last week that he and his wife just found out that their young adult daughter is bipolar and in crisis. She's also graduating from university, which I'm guessing precipitated the crisis--that transition to real life is non-trivial for many kids.
She's at school out of town and had admitted herself to hospital; he flew there, met with her and the docs, worked out a treatment plan. They released her and she went off to her apartment while he staggered off to a hotel. He woke up the next morning to find that she had readmitted herself and is now in a seven-day inpatient program.
He texted me that he's climbing a mountain; all I can do is agree and offer what little help I can. He and his wife are at sea, feeling helpless. A feeling I well remember. And as I've written before, we know that this isn't TV, where you get diagnosed, they give you some meds, and You're fine! All cured!! No more problem!!! It does work that way for some people, of course, but it's hardly the norm.
Meanwhile, it's thirteen years this month since Katie's problems surfaced. There's been some treatment progress since then, but no huge breakthroughs.
It happened that the day before he messaged me, I listened to Ketamine: How Special is Special K? on Science Vs., which is an always-excellent podcast that tries very hard to cover all sides of an issue. And I've also been reading about fecal microbiota transplant (FMT) therapy for depression, which is showing some promise as well. Of the two, FMT seems somehow less risky, if more random at this stage of development. And of course none of these experimental treatments guarantee positive results, any more than meds do.
The more we learn about how our brains and bodies work, the less likely their existence--much less continued operation--seems.
