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Medication acts as symbol of the larger illness itself. It is, of course, rather directly tied to any discussion of manic-depressive illness; as such, it is not a hidden symbol, but nevertheless, we can chart the progression and state of her manic-depressive illness through her use of lithium. For example, through Part 2, she frequently cycles through acceptance and rejection of her medication, despite her own particular illness being very effectively treated by it; this cycle of acceptance and rejection serves as a symbol of her own larger reckoning with the fact that she has manic-depressive illness and needs help managing it. Further, the effect lithium has on her is symbolic of the larger effect that the disease has on her; it is something of a catch-22 in that, at least initially, she must choose between a duller, but longer, life, and a more exciting, but likely shorter one; in fact, it is interesting that in order to treat her illness, her lithium levels needed to be nearly toxic, suggesting that even when treating it, she was always living on a precipice. She herself even chooses to use lithium symbolically as a means of suicide, reasoning that it had caused her so much pain in her life that it was only fitting that it be the means by which she ends it, too. However, in adjusting her levels, she also becomes capable of living a normal life, suggesting that medicine’s understanding of lithium additionally mirrors its understanding of manic-depressive illness itself.
Jamison is an avid reader and lover of literature (in fact, she is an Honorary Professor of English at St. Andrews, where she spent a year of undergrad), and she peppers in numerous quotations from the literary greats, such as Lord Byron and Edna St. Vincent Millay, throughout the text. In addition to enhancing the narrative, this has the effect of situating it within a larger, more universal mode of experience: e.g., both Byron and Millay suffered from mental illness, as well, and the quotations she chooses frequently reflect their own struggles. To that same end, her interest is both literary and clinical: she used her sabbatical to study moods in artists and has published a book on manic-depressive illness and artistic temperament. Lastly, literature—or her lack of it—was enormously important in her view of illness and medication: one of the chief reasons she disliked lithium for so many years was that it made it impossible for her to any serious, heavy reading, and one of the only things that made that manageable was that she was still able to focus enough to be able to read and enjoy poetry. It may also be important to note that this love is transferred to her treatment of manic-depressive illness in the text; not only does she imbue the text with lines of poetry, but her discussion lacks the cold, clinical detachment of an academic paper in favor of a warmer, more poetic approach.
England specifically, and the United Kingdom more broadly, appear to have a special role in the narrative and in her larger experience. As mentioned above, she holds an honorary professorship at St. Andrews, where she spent a year studying as an undergrad; that year had a profound effect on her relationship with academics as well as affording her a means of escape. She later spends several weeks in London visiting David, only to return several years later for a full year’s sabbatical, followed by another prior to leaving UCLA; in each instance, England, with its historical and romantic charms, appears to have had a restorative effect on her, and her descriptions of her time there appear to serve as a counterpoint to her time in the United States. Further, it is perhaps coincidental that two of the relationships she discusses were with Englishmen, but it is interesting that “They Tell Me It Rained” treats both her time on sabbatical and her time with that particular unnamed romantic partner with the charmed air of a fleeting affair.
Throughout the text, Jamison returns to concepts of tradition; while she generally seems to derive some stability from tradition, there is a healthy amount of skepticism and questioning regarding it, as well. We first encounter this in Part 1, where there is a rather lengthy discussion of the act of curtsying, which feels arbitrary to her due to its sexist roots; yet, she finds comfort in the traditions of military life that disappear once she transfers to civilian life. Later, though, her relationship with tradition and social norms appears to be more fraught. Naturally, much of her experience with the illness is the fact that her mania drives her to act against these norms, to which she would normally adhere (and the very concept of mental illness is often dichotomous with what is considered to be normal), but the fact that she feels addicted to her manias and continues to view them with a sense of longing suggests that she also enjoys that same kind of rejection. Further, as a woman, tradition for her is often synonymous with sexism and glass ceilings; at the time that she was rising through the academic ranks, both medicine and academia were deeply male, and at several points she discusses the ways in which that kind of systemic power made things difficult for her (most notably in “Tenure”). However, she still seems culturally drawn to things with historical roots: e.g., she tends to draw from older poets for her quotations, and while in England, she’s drawn to the decorum of Oxford and the historical relevance of St. George’s. This fraught relationship, of course, might also serve to symbolize the dichotomous nature of the illness itself: i.e., being drawn to the manias despite the depressions, being drawn to tradition despite the systemic oppressions.
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