The psychiatrist
held the door open for me and my first thought as I entered the room was
“Where is the couch?”. Instead of the
expected leather couch, I saw a patient lying down on a flat operation table surrounded
by monitors, devices, electrodes, and a team of physicians and nurses. The
psychiatrist had asked me if I wanted to join him during an “
ECT” for a patient with severe
depression. It was the first day of my psychiatry rotation at the VA (Veterans Affairs
Medical Center)
in San Diego,
and as a German medical student I was not yet used to the acronymophilia of
American physicians. I nodded without admitting that I had no clue what “
ECT” stood for, hoping that it would
become apparent once I sat down with the psychiatrist and the depressed
patient.
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I had big
expectations for this clinical rotation. German medical schools allow students to perform
their clinical rotations during their final year at academic medical centers
overseas, and I had been fortunate enough to arrange for a psychiatry rotation
in San Diego. The
University of California (UCSD) and the VA in San Diego
were known for their excellent psychiatry program and there was the added bonus
of living in San Diego.
Prior to this rotation in 1995, most of my exposure to psychiatry had taken the
form of medical school lectures, theoretical textbook knowledge and rather
limited exposure to actual psychiatric patients. This may have been part of the
reason why I had a rather naïve and romanticized view of psychiatry. I thought
that the mental anguish of psychiatric patients would foster their creativity and
that they were somehow plunging from one existentialist crisis into another. I
was hoping to engage in some witty repartee with the creative patients and that
I would learn from their philosophical insights about the actual meaning of
life. I imagined that interactions with psychiatric patients would be similar
to those that I had seen in Woody Allen’s movies: a neurotic, but intelligent artist
or author would be sitting on a leather couch and sharing his dreams and
anxieties with his psychiatrist.
I quietly stood in
a corner of the
ECT room,
eavesdropping on the conversations between the psychiatrist, the patient and
the other physicians in the room. I gradually began to understand that that “
ECT” stood for “
Electroconvulsive Therapy”. The patient had severe depression and
had failed to respond to multiple antidepressant medications. He would now
receive
ECT, what was commonly known
as electroshock therapy, a measure that was reserved for only very severe
cases of refractory mental illness. After the patient was sedated, the
psychiatrist initiated the electrical charge that induced a small seizure in
the patient. I watched the arms and legs of the patients jerk and shake.
Instead of participating in a Woody-Allen-style discussion with a patient, I
had ended up in a scene reminiscent of “
One
Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest”, a silent witness to a method that I thought
was both antiquated and barbaric. The
ECT
procedure did not take very long, and we left the room to let the sedation wear
off and give the patient some time to rest and recover. As I walked away from
the room, I realized that my ridiculously glamorized image of mental illness
was already beginning to fall apart on the first day of my rotation.
During the
subsequent weeks, I received an eye-opening crash course in psychiatry. I
became acquainted with
DSM-IV, the
fourth edition of the
Diagnostic and
Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders which was the sacred scripture of
American psychiatry according to which mental illnesses were diagnosed and classified.
I learned ECT was reserved for the most severe cases, and that a typical
patient was usually prescribed medications such as anti-psychotics, mood
stabilizers or anti-depressants. I was surprised to see that psychoanalysis had
gone out of fashion. Depictions of the USA
in German popular culture and Hollywood movies
had led me to believe that many, if not most, Americans had their own personal
psychoanalysts. My psychiatry rotation at the VA took place in the mid 1990s, the
boom time for psychoactive medications such as Prozac and the concomitant demise
of psychoanalysis.
I
found it exceedingly difficult to work with the
DSM-IV and to appropriately diagnose patients. The two biggest
obstacles I encountered were a) determining cause –effect relationships in
mental illness and b) distinguishing between regular human emotions and true
mental illness. The
DSM-IV criteria
for diagnosing a “Major Depressive Episode”, included depressive symptoms such
as sadness or guilt which were severe enough to “
cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social,
occupational, or other important areas of functioning”. I had seen a number
of patients who were very sad and had lost their job, but I could not determine
whether the sadness had impaired their “
occupational
functioning” or whether they had first lost their job and this had in turn
caused profound sadness. Any determination of causality was based on the
self-report of patients, and their memories of event sequences were highly
subjective.
The distinction
between “regular” human emotions and mental illness was another challenge for
me and the criteria in the
DSM-IV
manual seemed so broad that what I would have considered “sadness” was now
being labeled as a Major Depression. A number of patients that I saw had severe
mental illnesses such as depression, a condition so disabling that they could
hardly eat, sleep or work. The patient who had undergone ECT on my first day
belonged to that category. However, the majority of patients exhibited only
some impairment in their sleep or eating patterns and experienced a degree of
sadness or anxiety that I had seen in myself or my friends. I had considered
transient episodes of anxiety or unhappiness as part of the spectrum of human
emotional experience. The problem I saw with the patients in my psychiatry
rotation was these patients were not only being labeled with a diagnosis such
as “Major Depression”, but were then prescribed antidepressant medications
without any clear plan to ever take them off the medications. By coincidence, that year I met the forensic psychiatrist Ansar Haroun, who was
also on faculty at UCSD and was able to help me with my concerns. Due to his
extensive work in the court system and his rigorous analysis of mental states
for legal proceedings, Haroun was an expert on causality in psychiatry as well
the definition of what constitutes a truly pathological mental state.
Regarding
the issue of causality, Haroun explained to me the complexity of the mind and
mental states makes it extremely difficult to clearly define cause and effect
relationships in psychiatry. In infectious diseases, for example, specific
bacteria can be identified by laboratory tests as causes of a fever. The fever
normally does not precede the bacterial infection nor does it cause the
bacterial infection. The diagnosis of
mental illnesses, on the other hand, rests on subjective assessments of
patients and is further complicated by the fact that there are no clearly
defined biological causes or even objective markers of most mental illnesses.
Psychiatric diagnoses are therefore often based on patterns of symptoms and a
presumed causality. If a patient
exhibits symptoms of a depressed mood and has also lost his or her job during
that same time period, psychiatrists then have to diagnose whether the
depression was the cause of losing the job or whether the job loss caused
depressive symptoms. In my limited experience with psychiatry and the many
discussions I have had with practicing psychiatrists, it appears that the leeway
given to psychiatrists to assess cause-effect relationships may result in an
over-diagnosis of mental illnesses or an over-estimation of their impact.
I also learnt from
Haroun that the question of how to address the distinction between the spectrum
of “regular” human emotions and actual mental illness had resulted in a very
active debate in the field of psychiatry. Haroun directed me towards the
writings of Tom Szasz, who was a brilliant psychiatrist but also a critic of
psychiatry, repeatedly pointing out the limited scientific evidence for
diagnoses of mental illness. Szasz’ book
“
The Myth of Mental Illness”
was first published in 1960 and challenged the foundations of modern
psychiatry. One of his core criticisms of psychiatry was that his colleagues
had begun to over-diagnose mental illnesses by blurring the boundaries between
everyday emotions and true diseases. Every
dis-ease (discomfort) was being turned
into a
disease that required a therapy. The reasons for this overreach
by psychiatry were manifold, ranging from society and the state trying to
regulate what was acceptable or normal behavior to psychiatrists and
pharmaceutical companies that would benefit financially from the over-diagnosis
of mental illness. An excellent overview of his essays can be found in his book
“
The Medicalization of Everyday Life”.
Even though Tom Szasz passed away earlier this year, psychiatrists and
researchers are now increasingly voicing their concerns about the direction
that modern psychiatry has taken. Allan Horwitz and Jerome Wakefield, for
example, have recently published “
The Loss of Sadness: How Psychiatry
Transformed Normal Sorrow into Depressive Disorder” and “
All We Have to Fear: Psychiatry's
Transformation of Natural Anxieties into Mental Disorders”.
Unlike Szasz who even went as far as denying the existence of mental illness,
Horowitz and Wakefield
have taken a more nuanced approach. They accept the existence of true mental
illnesses, admit these illnesses can be disabling and acknowledge the patients
who are afflicted by mental illnesses do require psychiatric treatment.
However, Horowitz and Wakefield
criticize the massive over-diagnosis of mental illness and point out the need
to distinguish true mental illnesses from normal sadness and anxiety.
Before I started my
psychiatry rotation in San Diego,
I had been convinced that mental illness fostered creativity. I had never
really studied the question in much detail, but there were constant references
in popular culture, movies, books and TV shows to the creative minds of
patients with mental illness. The supposed link between mental illness and
creativity was so engrained in my mind that the word “psychotic” automatically
evoked images of van Gogh’s paintings and other geniuses whose creative minds
were fueled by the bizarreness of their thoughts. Once I began seeing
psychiatric patients who truly suffered from severe disabling mental illnesses,
it became very difficult for me to maintain this romanticized view of mental
illness. People who truly suffered from severe depression had difficulties even
getting out of bed, getting dressed and meeting their basic needs. It was
difficult to envision someone suffering from such a disabling condition to be
able to write large volumes of poetry or to analyze the data from
ground-breaking experiments. The brilliant book “
Creativity and Madness: New Findings and Old
Stereotypes” by Albert Rothenberg helped me understand that the
supposed link between creativity and mental illness was primarily based on
myths, anecdotes and a selection bias in which the creative accomplishments of
patients with mental illness were glorified and attributed to the illness
itself. Geniuses who suffered from schizophrenia or depression were not
creative
because of their mental
illness but
in spite of their mental
illness.
I began to realize
that the over-diagnosis of mental illness and the departure of causality that
had become characteristic for contemporary psychiatry also helped foster the
myth that mental illness enhances creativity. Many beautiful pieces of
literature or art can be inspired by emotional states such as the sadness of
unrequited love or the death of a loved one. Creativity is often a response to
a state of discomfort or
dis-ease, an
attempt to seek out comfort. However, if definitions of mental illness are
broadened to the extent that nearly every such
dis-ease is considered a
disease,
one can easily fall into the trap of believing that mental illness indeed begets
creativity. In respect to establishing causality, Rothenberg found, contrary to
the prevailing myth, mental illness was actually a disabling condition that
prevented creative minds from completing their artistic or scientific tasks. A
few years ago, I came across “
Poets on Prozac: Mental Illness, Treatment,
and the Creative Process” a collection of essays written by
poets who suffer from mental illness. The personal accounts of most poets
suggest that their mental illnesses did not help them write their poetry, but
actually acted as major hindrances. It was only when their illness was
adequately treated and they were in a state of remission that they were able to
write poems. A recent comprehensive analysis of studies that attempt to link
creativity and mental illness can be found in the excellent textbook “
Explaining Creativity: The Science of Human
Innovation” by Keith Sawyer, who concludes that there is no
scientific evidence for the claim that mental illness promotes creativity. He
also points to a possible origin of this myth:
The mental illness myth is based in cultural
conceptions of creativity that date from the Romantic era, as a pure expression
of inner inspiration, an isolated genius, unconstrained by reason and
convention.
I assumed that the
myth had finally been laid to rest, but, to my surprise I came across the
headline
Creativity 'closely entwined with mental illness' on the
BBC website in October 2012. The BBC story was referring to the large-scale
Swedish study “
Mental illness, suicide and creativity:
40-Year prospective total population study” by Simon Kyaga and
his colleagues at the Karolinska Institute, published online in the
Journal of Psychiatric Research. The BBC
news report stated “
Creativity is often
part of a mental illness, with writers particularly susceptible, according to a
study of more than a million people” and continued:
Lead researcher Dr Simon Kyaga said the findings
suggested disorders should be viewed in a new light and that certain traits
might be beneficial or desirable.
For example, the restrictive and intense interests of
someone with autism and the manic drive of a person with bipolar disorder might
provide the necessary focus and determination for genius and creativity.
Similarly, the disordered thoughts associated with
schizophrenia might spark the all-important originality element of a
masterpiece.
These statements
went against nearly all the recent scientific literature on the supposed link
between creativity and mental illness and once again rehashed the tired, romanticized
myth of the mentally ill genius. I was puzzled by these claims and decided to read
the original paper. There was the additional benefit of learning more about the
mental health of Swedes, because my wife is a Swedish-American. It never hurts
to know more about the mental health or the creative potential of one’s spouse.
Kyaga’s study did
not measure creativity itself, but merely assessed correlations between self-reported
“creative professions” and the diagnoses of mental illness in the Swedish
population. Creative professions included scientific professions (primarily
scientists and university faculty members) as well as artistic professions such
as visual artists, authors, dancers and musicians. The deeply flawed assumption
of the study was that if an individual has a “creative profession”, he or she
has a higher likelihood of being a creative person. Accountants were used as a
“control”, implying that being an accountant does not involve much creativity.
This may hold true for Sweden,
but the creativity of accountants in the USA has been demonstrated by the
recent plethora of financial scandals. The size of the Kyaga study was quite
impressive, involving over one million patients and collecting data on the
relatives of patients. The fact that Sweden has a total population of
about 9.5 million and that more than one million of its adult citizens are
registered in a national database as having at least one mental illness is both
remarkable and worrisome.
The main outcome was
the likelihood that patients with certain mental illnesses such as depression,
schizophrenia or anxiety disorders were engaged in a “creative profession”. The
results of the study directly contradicted the BBC hyperbole:
We found no positive association between psychopathology
and overall creative professions except for bipolar disorder. Rather,
individuals holding creative professions had a significantly reduced likelihood
of being diagnosed with schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, unipolar
depression, anxiety disorders, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, autism, ADHD, or of
committing suicide.
Not only did the
authors fail to find a positive correlation between creative professions and
mental illnesses (with the exception of bipolar disorder), they actually found
the opposite of what they had suspected: Patients with mental illnesses were
less likely to engage in a creative profession.
Their findings do
not come as a surprise to anyone who has been following the scientific
literature on this topic. After all, the disabling features of mental illness
make it very difficult to maintain a creative profession. Kyaga and colleagues
also presented a contrived subgroup analysis, to test whether there was any
group within the “creative professions” that showed a positive correlation with
mental illness. It appears contrived, because they only break down the artistic
professions, but did not perform a similar analysis for the scientific
professions. Among all these subgroup analyses, the researchers found a
positive correlation between the self-reported profession ‘author’ and a number
of mental illnesses. However, they also found that other artistic professions did
not show such a positive correlation.
How the results of this study gave rise to the
blatant misinterpretation reported by the BBC that “
the disordered thoughts associated with schizophrenia might spark the
all-important originality element of a masterpiece” is a mystery in itself.
It shows the power of the myth of the mad genius and how myths and convictions
can tempt us to misinterpret data in a way that maintains the mythic narrative.
The myth may also be an important component in the attempt to medicalize
everyday emotions. The notion that mental illness fosters creativity could make
the diagnosis more palatable. You may be mentally ill, but don’t worry, because
it might inspire you to paint like van Gogh or write poems like Sylvia Plath.
A study of the
prevalence of mental illness published in the
Archives of General Psychiatry in 2005 estimated that
roughly half of all Americans will have been
diagnosed with a mental illness by time they reach the age of 75.
This estimate was based on the DSM-IV criteria for mental illness, but the newer
DSM-V manual will be released in 2013 and is likely to further expand the
diagnosis of mental illness. The DSM-IV criteria had made allowance for
bereavement to avoid diagnosing people who were profoundly sad after the loss
of a loved one with the mental illness depression.
This bereavement exemption will likely be
removed from the new DSM-V criteria so that the diagnosis of major
depression can be used even during the grieving period. The small group of
patients who are afflicted with disabling mental illness do not find their
suffering to be glamorous. There is a large number of patients who are
experiencing normal sadness or anxiety and end up being inappropriately
diagnosed with mental illness using broad and lax criteria of what constitutes
an illness. Are these patients comforted by romanticized myths about mental
illness? The continuing over-reach of psychiatry in its attempt to medicalize
emotions, supported by the pharmaceutical industry that reaps large profits
from this over-reach, should be of great concern to all of society. We need to
wade through the fog of pseudoscience and myths to consider the difference
between dis-ease and disease and the cost of medicalizing human emotions.
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons Public Domain ECT machine (1960s) by Nasko and Self-Portait of van Gogh.
An earlier version of this article was first published on the 3Quarksdaily Blog.
Kyaga, S., Landén, M., Boman, M., Hultman, C., Långström, N., & Lichtenstein, P. (2013). Mental illness, suicide and creativity: 40-Year prospective total population study Journal of Psychiatric Research, 47 (1), 83-90 DOI: 10.1016/j.jpsychires.2012.09.010