Product Description

An astonishing dispatch from inside the belly of bipolar disorder, reflecting major new insights

When Marya Hornbacher published her first book, Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia, she did not yet have the piece of shattering knowledge that would finally make sense of the chaos of her life. At age twenty-four, Hornbacher was diagnosed with Type I rapid-cycle bipolar, the most severe form of bipolar disorder.

In Madness, in her trademark wry and utterly self-revealing voice, Hornbacher tells her new story. Through scenes of astonishing visceral and emotional power, she takes us inside her own desperate attempts to counteract violently careening mood swings by self-starvation, substance abuse, numbing sex, and self-mutilation. How Hornbacher fights her way up from a madness that all but destroys her, and what it is like to live in a difficult and sometimes beautiful life and marriage -- where bipolar always beckons -- is at the center of this brave and heart-stopping memoir.

Madness delivers the revelation that Hornbacher is not alone: millions of people in America today are struggling with a variety of disorders that may disguise their bipolar disease. And Hornbacher's fiercely self-aware portrait of her own bipolar as early as age four will powerfully change, too, the current debate on whether bipolar in children actually exists.

Ten years after Kay Redfield Jamison's An Unquiet Mind, this storm of a memoir will revolutionize our understanding of bipolar disorder.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #592 in Books
• Published on: 2008-04-09
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 299 pages

From Publishers Weekly
Hornbacher, who detailed her struggle with bulimia and anorexia in Wasted, now shares the story of her lifelong battle with mental illness, finally diagnosed as rapid cycling type 1 bipolar disorder. Even as a toddler, Hornbacher couldn't sleep at night and jabbered endlessly, trying to talk her parents into going outside to play in the dark. Other schoolchildren called her crazy. When she was just 10, she discovered alcohol was a good mood stabilizer; by age 14, she was trading sex for pills. In her late teens, her eating disorder landed her in the hospital, followed by another body obsession, cutting. An alcoholic by this point, she was alternating between mania and depression, with frequent hospitalizations. Her doctor explained that not only did the alcohol block her medications, it was up to her to control her mental illness, which would always be with her. This truth didn't sink in for a long, long time, but when it did, she had a chance for a life outside her local hospital's psychiatric unit. Hornbacher ends on a cautiously optimistic note—she knows she'll never lead a normal life, but maybe she could live with the life she does have. Although painfully self-absorbed, Hornbacher will touch a nerve with readers struggling to cope with mental illness. (Apr.)
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About the Author
Marya Hornbacher was twenty-four when she was diagnosed with Type 1 rapid-cycle bipolar. She is the author of the Pulitzer Prize-nominated national bestseller "'Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia"', a book that remains an intensely read classic, and of the acclaimed novel "'The Center of Winter"'. An award-winning journalist, she lectures nationally on eating disorders and writing lives with her husband in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Goatman
1978

I will not go to sleep. I won't. My parents, who are always going to bed, tell
me that I can stay up if I want, but for God's sake, don't come out of my
room. I am four years old and I like to stay up all night. I sing my songs, very
quietly. I keep watch. Nothing can get me if I am awake.
I sleep during the day like a bat with the blinds closed, and then
they come home. I hear them open the door, and I fling on the lights and
gallop through the house shrieking to wake the dead all evening, all night.
Let's have a play! I shout. Let's have a ballet! A reading! A race! Don't tell me
what to do, get away from me, I hate you, you're never any fun, you never let
me do anything, I want to go to the opera! I want opera glasses! I'm going to
be an explorer! I don't care if I track mud all over the house, let's get another
dog! I want an Irish setter, I want a camel! I want an Easter dress! I'm going
ice-skating! Right now, yes! Where are the car keys? Of course I can drive!
Fine, go to bed! See if I care!
And I slam into my room, dive onto the bed, kick and scream, get
bored, read a book, shouting at the top of my lungs, "I don't care," says
Pierre! And the lion says, "Then I will eat you, if I may." "I don't care, says
Pierre!" It is my favorite Maurice Sendak book. I jabber to my imaginary
friends Susie and Sackie and Savvy and Cindy, who tell me secrets and stay
with me all night while I am keeping watch, while I am guarding the castle,
and there are horrible creatures waiting to kill me so I talk to myself all night,
writing a play and acting it out with a thousand little porcelain figures that I
dust every day, twice a day, I must keep things neat, in their magic
positions, or something terrible will happen. The shah of Iran, who is under
my bed, will leap out and carry me away under his arm.
I have to get dressed. So what if it's black as pitch outside. I go to
the closet, I take out a jumper and a white shirt, and from the dresser I get
white socks and white underwear and a white undershirt, and I get my favorite
saddle shoes, and I suit up completely. I must be very quiet or my parents
will hear. I tie my shoes in double knots so I won't fall out of them. I get on
my hands and knees and crawl all over the room, smoothing out the carpet.
Finally I make myself stop. I lie down in the center of the floor, facing the
door in case of emergency. I cross my ankles and fold my hands across my
middle. I close my eyes. I fall asleep, or die.

"Mom," I whisper loudly, pushing on her shoulder. It's dark, I'm in my parents'
bedroom, a ghost in my white nightie. "Mom," I say again, shaking her. I
bounce up and down on my toes and lean over her, my mouth near her
ear. "Mom, I have to tell you something."
"What is it?" she mumbles, opening one eye.
"The goatman," I whisper, agitated. "He's in my room. He came
while I was sleeping. You have to make him leave. I can't sleep. Will you
read to me?" I hop about, crashing into the nightstand. "Can we make a
cake? I want to make a cake, I can't go to school tomorrow, I'm scared of
Teacher Jackie, she yells at us, she doesn't like me, Mom, the goatman, do
you have to go to work tomorrow? Will you read to me?"
"Marya, it's the middle of the night," she says, hoisting herself up
with her elbow. Next to her, the mountain of my father snores. "Can we read
tomorrow?"
"I can't go back in there!" I shriek, running around in a tiny
circle. "The goatman will get me! We could make cookies instead! I want to
buy a horse, a gray one! And I want to go to the beach and collect seashells,
can't we go to the beach, I promise I'll sleep —"
My mother swings her legs off the edge of the bed and holds me
by the shoulders. "Honey, can you slow down? Just slow down."
Out of breath, I stand there, my head spinning. "What did you
want to tell me?" she asks. "One thing. Tell me the most important thing you
want to tell me."
"The goatman," I say, and burst into tears. "But Mom, I can't—"
"Shhh," she says, picking me up. She carries me down the hall.
This is how she fixes it. She holds me very tight and things slow down a
little. But I'm too upset. I set my chin on her shoulder and sob and babble.
Everyone's going to leave, you'll forget to come get me, I'll get lost, I'll get
stuck in the grocery store and they'll lock me in. What if there are snakes in
my bedroom? Why won't the goatman go away? What if it isn't perfect?
What if it's scary? What if you and Daddy die? Who will take care of me?
What if you give me away? I don't want you to give me away, I want to be a
policeman, why do policemen wear hats —
"Marya, hush. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."
I want to see Grandma, let's go see Grandma, I want to go
outside and play in the yard, why can't I play in the yard when it's dark, I
want to look at the moon —
We pace up and down the hall. I get more and more agitated,
swinging moment by moment from terror to elation to utter despair, until
finally I wiggle my way free and start to run. I race around the house, my
mother trailing me, until I stumble on my nightgown and sprawl out on the
floor, sobbing, beating my fists on the ground. "I'm here," she says. "Honey,
I'm here."
I snuffle and drag a hiccupping breath and heave a sigh. She is
here. She is right here. She picks me up. She carries me into the bathroom
and turns on the bathtub. While it runs, I squirm on her lap, kicking my legs,
shrieking, laughing, crying, I can't ever go back in my room, the goatman, I
want to have a party, when is it Christmas, I want to live in a tree house, what
if I fall in the ocean and drown, where do I go when I die —
She pulls my nightgown over my head and sets me in the tub. I
am suddenly quiet. Water makes it better. In the water, I am safe. She
kneels next to me where I sit, only my head sticking out of the water. She
tells me a story. Things are slowing down. I am contained. I bob in the water,
warm, enclosed. My limbs float. The noise and racing of my thoughts wind
down until they yawn in my head as if they are in slow motion. My head is
filled with white cotton, and I hear a low humming, and my skull is heavy. I
am aware only of the water and my mother's voice.
Back in bed, she wraps me tight in my quilt, my arms and legs
and feet and hands all covered, kept in so they won't fly off. The goatman has
gone away for the night. She sits on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair.
I am wrapped up like a package. I am a caterpillar in my cocoon. I am an egg.
She stays with me until, near dawn, I fall asleep.

What They Know
1979

They know I am different. They say that I live in my head. They are just being
kind. I'm crazy. The other kids say it, twirl their fingers next to their heads,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! they say, and I laugh with them, and roll my eyes to imitate
a crazy person, and fling my arms and legs around to show them that I get
the joke, I'm in on it, I'm not really crazy at all. They do it after one of my
outbursts at school or in daycare, when I've been running around like a
maniac, laughing like crazy, or while I get lost in my words, my mouth
running off ahead of me, spilling the wild, lit-up stories that race through my
head, or when I burst out in raging fits that end with me sobbing hysterically
and beating my fists on my head or my desk or my knees. Then I look up
suddenly, and everyone's staring. And I brighten up, laugh my happiest
laugh, to show them I was just kidding, I'm really not like that, and everyone
laughs along.

I am lying on the bed. I am listening to my parents scream at each other in
the other room. That's what they do. They scream or throw things or both.
You son of a bitch! [crash]. You're trying to ruin my life! [crash, shatter,
crash]. When they are not screaming, we are all cozy and happy and
laughing, the little bear family, we love each other, we have the all-a-buddy
hug. It's hard to tell which is going to come next. Between the screaming and
the crazies, it is very loud in my head.
And so I am feeling numb. It's a curious feeling, and I get it all the
time. My attention to the world around me disappears, and something starts
to hum inside my head. Far off, voices try to bump up against me, but I repel
them. My ears fill up with water and I focus on the humming in my head.
I am inside my skull. It is a little cave, and I curl up inside it.
Below it, my body hovers, unattached. I have that feeling of falling, and I
imagine my soul is being pulled upward, and I close my eyes and let go.
My feet are flying. I hate it when my feet are flying. I sit up and
grab them with both hands. It's dark, and I stare at the little line of light that
sneaks in under the door.
The light begins to move. It begins to pulse and blur. I try to make
it stop. I scowl and stare at it. My heart beats faster. I am frozen in my bed,
gripping my feet. The light has crawled across the floor. It's headed for the
bed. I want it to hold still, so I press my brain against it, expecting it to stop,
but it doesn't. The line crosses the purple carpet. I want to scream. I open
my mouth and hear myself say something, but I don't know what it is or who
said it. The little man in...

Customer Reviews

Insightul!
MADNESS: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher
May 15, 2008

Amazon Rating 4/5 stars

I normally don't read non-fiction, except I am fascinated by psychologically minded books such as this one. MADNESS is a memoir by a woman who suffers from bipolar disorder (what at one time had been known as manic depression) but was not diagnosed until much later in life. Because of this belated diagnosis, Marya obviously was not treated for a disorder that could have been kept under control if caught in time. Instead, Marya was diagnosed with something totally different, and because of that she had been given medications that actually harmed her.

Her symptoms throughout the years came and went, but as she describes what she has gone through, she gives a good example of what a person afflicted with Bipolar I disorder goes through, and what their loved ones and friends deal with day to day. Marya had the severe form of Bipolar disorder, and because it was left untreated for so long, her life was one horrific hell on earth. With manic highs and lows, she went from one relationship to another, bingeing on food and money, and began to resort to acts such as cutting, one of the few ways she felt in control of her crazy life.

I found MADNESS a fascinating and insightful look into the life of a person with bipolar disorder, and having friends and family members of friends afflicted with it, I found this book very helpful in allowing me to understood a lot more of what having bipolar disorder is all about. Marya brings the reader into her madness, and shows us the pain she has gone through and her journey to the road of recovery.

Marya Hornbacher, despite the hellish life she has led, is a gifted writer and it shows what any one can do, no matter what their state of mine is in. This is not her first book, and I hope it is not her last.

My thoughts.
Having been diagnosed with bipolar disorder myself, I thought that reading another person's account would help to deepen my understanding of my own situation. That being said, I am glad this book wasn't around for me to read a year ago when I first found out. I would have been scared to death. If you have never encountered a bipolar person (there are many degrees of bipolar, some more serious than others) this is NOT the book for you. It may give you the wrong impression of the disorder.
Her chapters read like manic episodes, jumping from thought to thought which I found discomforting, despite my complete understanding of what that feels like(and didn't she mention throughout that she was working on this book while experiencing episodes?). Her multiple hospitalizations, wild road trips, and even more than one marriage can make one think that bipolar is too much to handle and is something to be scared of.
However, there were moments in there that floored me - that had me saying "Oh s**t. That is exactly how I felt before I was treating my disorder." She also details the inevitable process of denial that occurs when one is diagnosed with something as stigmatized as bipolar disorder. The continual self-abuse that makes treatment that much harder.
If you have already learned about bipolar and can handle a horrendous story of one woman's personal experience, then go ahead. There are many resources listed in the back which can be helpful if you havn't already found them on the web. However, I do not plan to re-read this book and plan to sell my copy.

Living my hell through her hell
I have some addiction issues with Klonopin and I started reading this book when I was going through some serious Klonopin withdrawal. I am not bipolar but I found this book helpful and comforting while going through my own personal madness.

Like she says in the book, I honestly don't know how she made it through all this without killing someone (by mistake of course) or herself, accidental or intentional. It is a miracle and she is blessed to come through this. Her writing is so convincing. I really felt like I was in her head and this is how it feels to be bipolar.

I don't know how she drank as much as she did!! I kept thinking, Wow, considering her situation she was able to travel for her book tour and become an accomplished woman.

I hope she stays on the straight and narrow and am glad that she told her story. I feel like anyone who reads this will finally understand what it is to have mental illness. Because so many people don't understand and I know I have a very hard time explaining how I feel sometimes.