Modern Madness

by Terri Cheney

  There’s no way he can know it, but with every one of his calls, tomorrow gets a little farther away. The depression seems so much bigger to me now: It’s not only my own despair, it belongs to everyone who’s ever loved me. Everyone who will torment themselves with what they might have said or done, if only… The pain will all be over for me, but for them, it will just be beginning.

  He calls me again, right on the dot. “How are you doing?” he says.

  “I—um—I think I should tell you something,” I stutter. “I really don’t want to, but I think you should know. A couple of weeks ago, I…”

  In a pawn shop in the seedier part of Beverly Hills, a pearl-handled pistol still waits.

  THREE ENORMOUS WORDS

  Years ago, on one of my very first days as a lawyer, a boozy old partner strolled into my office. He smelled like good scotch and a bad cigar, and he came a little too close to my desk.

  “Scared?” he said, and I nodded.

  “You should be. Litigation is hell.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Then he came even closer, and I started to sweat. But he slapped a book down on my desk.

  “You’ll find all the answers you need in that,” he said. Then he meandered back out. I don’t think I ever saw him again, but it was a big firm, and sometimes people got lost.

  I figured it was Nimmer on Copyright, or the Code of Civil Procedure, or something like that. But he surprised me: it was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. And the old man was right: the answers were in there.

  I have tremendous respect for battle: Like so many bipolar people, I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve had to be—I was born with a mind that fought back. Which doesn’t mean I’ve always been brave. Far from it. My courage is the kind that comes out when I’m pinned against a wall; it’s born of desperation. But I’d be a fool if I weren’t afraid. I know all too well what’s inside me, just waiting to get out.

  The world gets very spooky when I’m on the verge of a depression. It’s like a carnival after hours—full of half-glimpsed terrors and half-heard noises, evil vapors swirling in the air. Take the other night: I was driving through an unfamiliar alley when, without any warning, an enormous man brandishing a pitchfork suddenly appeared to my left. I stomped on the gas to get away from him and bang! I drove straight into a pothole, crunching my bumper. Terrified, I looked back in my rearview mirror, but the enormous man hadn’t moved an inch. He was still standing in the exact same place, pitchfork poised at the exact same angle.

  I squinted and looked harder. Damn. You know you’re in a fragile state of mind when a mural scares the bejeezus out of you.

  It’s always that way when depression is looming. I startle at the slightest sound. I shiver when the wind barely touches my skin. I’m afraid of all sorts of nameless things, and some things that have very definite names. Dying. Dying alone. Dying alone in a windowless room. I could go on, but what’s the point? We all know the night. Only some of us carry it with us into the daytime.

  Sometimes, of course, it’s completely reasonable to be anxious. You only need a whiff of the news to realize that these are perilous times, worthy of a fair dollop of worry. But there’s no fear like the fear of depression returning. It’s weightless, disembodied, intangible. Quite literally, it’s all in the mind. But that doesn’t lessen its horror. How can I conquer it, when it’s so ephemeral? How do I fight an invisible fear?

  I do what the old man told me. I go back to The Art of War, and its seminal lesson: know thy enemy. “If you know the enemy and know yourself,” Sun Tzu said, “you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.” So when my body revolts—it hurts to blink, my lungs protest against every breath—I know who’s come to visit. When I get global—everything is awful, the whole world is against me—I know what’s going on. At that point, the most valuable thing I can say to myself is, “It’s depression talking.”

  That’s it, that’s the secret: “It’s depression talking.”

  It’s amazing what a difference it can make simply to name your opponent. I learned this lesson early on, and forgot it. When I was maybe six years old, I had severe night terrors, as many bipolar children do. I was sure there was a beast living under my bed, just waiting for the dark so he could rip me apart and devour me for his dinner. I’d wake my poor parents in the middle of the night, sobbing and unable to be comforted.

  Then one night my very wise father got down on his knees, looked under my bed, and said, “Is that who you’re afraid of? Why, that’s Ernie.” Ernie, it seemed, was a jolly old monster who wanted nothing more than to watch over my dreams. It was hard to be afraid of a monster who had my best interests at heart. And nothing named Ernie can really be scary. I slept through the night after that.

  I haven’t quite evolved to the point where I can call my depression “Ernie.” But I can call it by its rightful name, and recognize it when it comes too close, or tries to take up residence beneath my bed. Then I can do what needs to be done: call my doctor and adjust my meds; double up on therapy; stockpile comforting books and old movies; take great pains to eat and sleep well; and alert my closest friends. I can arm myself for battle.

  “It’s depression talking.” That little phrase—and the world of knowledge that lies behind it—is the most powerful weapon I own.

  HYPOMANIA

  “That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown…”

  —Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593), Tamburlaine the Great

  As the Harvard Medical School explains, “hypo” (from the Greek) means “under” or “less than.” Hypomania therefore shares the same symptoms as mania, but they’re less intense. It also lasts for a shorter duration, at least four consecutive days. The key difference between mania and hypomania, according to the DSM-5, is that a hypomanic episode isn’t severe enough to cause marked impairment in social or occupational functioning, or to necessitate hospitalization, and there are no psychotic features.

  So what’s the problem necessitating a diagnosis? Hypomania can escalate into mania, or switch to serious depression. You can’t always tell which one might happen because the pattern can be unpredictable. That’s why some people—especially those with Bipolar II, who only experience hypomanic and depressive episodes—complain that it upsets the even rhythm of their lives. They may become very talkative, need less sleep, engage more socially, or otherwise feel and behave in ways that are different from their normal, everyday state. As the DSM-5 notes, this is often noticeable by others.

  Dire consequences frequently result from mania’s excesses and disregard for convention; in hypomania, not so much (https://www.healthline.com/health/mania-vs-hypomania#causes). There simply isn’t the same clouding of judgment and itch to break the rules. And there can be significant rewards as well: a sublime sense of well-being, greater energy, enhanced creativity, and keener insight. If only it weren’t for the Damocles’s sword aspect to it—the perilous nature of so much happiness—perhaps people wouldn’t complain at all.

  THE PROZAC YEARS

  It was the best relationship I’ve ever had. It lasted almost two years—two glorious years of waking up in the morning eager for the day to start, and falling asleep with a satisfied smile on my face. Two years of memory-making adventures, intense connection, and a harmony so complete it eludes description. The relationship wasn’t with a man, or a woman, or even an animal. I was in love with myself.

  I call them “the Prozac years.” I hadn’t yet been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. When I went to see a psychiatrist, all he witnessed was my crippling despair—the crying jags, the inability to move, the overwhelming wish to end it all. Not surprisingly, he diagnosed me with major depression. He was an excellent doctor, very up-to-the-minute, so it also wasn’t a surprise that he prescribed Prozac, the latest wonder drug to hit the market.

  It took a week or so to take effect, but oh my God, when it hit, it hit hard. It banished my depression to a faint if troubling memory. For the first time in
ages, I actually looked forward to going to work—in fact, I almost craved the challenge. My mind had been lying dormant for so long, it was a thrill to be reintroduced to its abilities. I researched and wrote like a fiend, practically cackling with joy at the thought of whipping my adversaries. The partners in my law firm noticed and began giving me bigger and better cases, until my floor overflowed with files and I had to annex an adjoining office.

  But it wasn’t just in the law that I shone. My creativity, which I thought had all but disappeared, blossomed back to life and the old itch to write reasserted itself. So I took a writing class, joined a writing group, and rediscovered the bliss of putting just the right words in just the right order. I studied drawing and art history and English country gardens, and amassed a sizable collection of Sherlock Holmes apocrypha. That wasn’t enough, though: I was fulfilling my own needs, but what about the world’s? There were so many inequities staring me in the face, and I had the resources and energy to take them on. I sought out causes and represented them pro bono—one lawsuit went all the way up to the US Supreme Court. I finagled myself into an elite showbiz political coalition, and schmoozed my way to justice.

  How did I take all of this on, while still billing such an extraordinary number of hours? I often look back at that time and wonder at its elasticity. It’s as if my life expanded to meet my needs and my desires—and speaking of desire, I didn’t skimp on socializing, either. I belonged to all the groups for up-and-coming professionals, and made the most of the opportunity to consort with anyone and everyone I found fascinating. And I found a great many people fascinating back then. The world was full of wonders, not all of them men.

  Bad things naturally happened—I was, after all, performing for very high stakes in a high-stress environment, and I wasn’t magically immune to sadness or disappointment. But they didn’t burrow deep inside me and fester, as they used to. I didn’t ruminate about them until all hours of the night. I told my doctor I felt like the beloved omelette pan I’d brought home from Paris. Somehow things didn’t stick to me, they swooshed right off. I dealt with them and moved on.

  I remember one Sunday afternoon hiking up to the Hollywood sign—yes, I even enjoyed hiking back then, such a stark contrast to the sedentary, practically paralyzed person I’d been when I was depressed. It was nearing the golden hour, when L.A. takes on a roseate glow that makes you believe in the divinity of beauty no matter how jaded you might be. I looked out over the city—my city—and made a mental note to remember that moment. Even now, I can still recall how happy and proud and grateful I felt. I was becoming the person I’d always wanted to be.

  The Prozac years ended the following day.

  I know because it was a Monday and I had a filing deadline in federal court—an answer to a complaint for copyright infringement that I’d already finished writing. All that was left to do was to get all the necessary copies made and send it by messenger to be filed and served. My secretary could handle most of that, I just had to stand by and make sure everything got done on time. But that morning, when the alarm clock rang, I felt the oddest lethargy. I hit the snooze button once, twice, then knocked the damn thing off the bedside table. It was past time for me to get in the shower, but the thought of that was repellent to me: all that water needling my skin.

  When my eyes opened again, the sun was directly in them, which wasn’t a good sign. I picked up the clock and swore: 1 p.m. I threw on a suit and gunned the Porsche and made it to the office in record time, only to find disaster waiting for me. The Xerox machines were down.

  “They’ve been working on them all morning,” my secretary told me, practically wringing her hands. “It’s something electrical, they’ve called in an expert.”

  Normally I would have reassured her that it wasn’t that big a deal, it would all turn out fine, and not to panic. Instead I marched into the copy room and corralled the head guy. “I’ve got a major filing due this afternoon, you have to fix it now,” I said.

  “We’re working on it,” he said. “But it seems—”

  I raised my voice so all the copy guys could hear. “I don’t want to hear but, I don’t want to hear why. I want it fixed and I want it fixed now. Just do it, I don’t care how.” And I slammed the door behind me.

  This wasn’t like me at all—I’d always tried hard to maintain a good working relationship with the people who helped me. I needed them more than they needed me, and I knew it; I was careful with their feelings. But that day I was just plain furious and couldn’t stop my anger from mounting. I yelled at my secretary to go stand in the copy room and watch, not that she could do anything but I was inexplicably mad at her, too.

  The senior partner who was supervising the case stopped by my office. “What’s happening with the filing?” he asked. I told him what was going on, and he lit into me the same way I had lit into the copy guys. “I already told the studio the answer was on its way,” he said. “You’ve made me into a liar. Get it done, now.”

  When he left, I burst into tears even though I knew this was the way of the wolf pack I lived in: devour or be devoured. I felt helpless and hopeless, and the minutes just kept ticking by. I had to get the pleading out the door by 3 p.m. to beat the downtown traffic, and it was well past two o’clock. But my brain wouldn’t work. It was thick and fuzzy, like a cloud of cotton wool. Beneath the fog lay something worse: a growing realization that I had changed, that things weren’t swooshing off me anymore.

  Purely out of the adrenaline of fear, I managed. I commandeered a Xerox machine from the bank downstairs, and hired a motorcycle messenger to weave in and out of the freeway traffic. The answer got filed on time—just barely. The crisis was averted, and I apologized to the copy guys and to my secretary for losing my cool. I apologized to the senior partner for making him sweat. But it didn’t ease my heart one bit. I knew, by the time I finally got home, that something had been irretrievably lost that day—not the case, but my own serenity.

  My doctor tried upping my Prozac dose, well past the recommended limit. But the drug had simply stopped working, just like that, and we never could figure out why. We tried adding on other antidepressants, antianxiety agents, antipsychotics. No response, only an ever-deepening return to the emotional abyss I’d known before—except when I got manic, which was its own spectacular kind of hell because my judgment became so severely impaired.

  I did get hypomanic occasionally after that, but only for brief spurts, never for such an extended period of time. And the hypomania usually meant my mood was cycling, so there was a damper on my enjoyment of it. The omnipresent “Will it last?” spoiled some of the joy. Plus when I came down from those rarified heights, I was faced with the consequences of my success: the massive workload and the even more outsized expectations. But perhaps the most poignant pain of all was the loss of the identity I’d come to know and trust—and love so deeply.

  There’s an ache that is eternal in me, a longing for who I might be if only I were hypomanic again. It reminds me of my favorite lines in The Tempest, spoken by a tormented Caliban:

  “Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

  Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not…

  When I waked, I cried to dream again.”

  SEDUCED BY A RIPE RED PLUM

  Early this morning, without any warning at all, I woke up in the throes of euphoria. I threw off the covers, snapped on the light, and giggled from the sheer pleasure of being alive. What was I going to do with this frabjous day? Anything I wanted to. Everything I wanted to. I added a big dollop of cream to my coffee and devoured a blueberry scone dripping with honey. I indulged myself shamefully, without the shame.

  But there was no time to waste: I was eager to be up and about and getting things done. Not monumental tasks, like saving the world, but essential ones, like getting groceries. There are no small parts, only small players, I reminded myself as I drove to my usual market. Halfway there, I pulled an illegal U-turn and headed back toward Gelson’
s. It was a Gelson’s kind of day.

  Let me describe: Gelson’s is the sine qua non of supermarkets. When you walk in the door, it’s like stepping into springtime. You’re surrounded by orchids and lilies and swoons of roses, all begging to go home with you. There’s a fountain somewhere, trickling water, and you don’t even care if it’s real or recorded. The cheese section alone is like a bucket-list journey to far-off places.

  I gazed with longing at a tiny goat cheese labeled “Caprino di Foglia Noce,” which sounded like a song sung by Venetian gondoliers at twilight.

  “Would you care for a sample?” the cheese man said.

  “Thank you, but I could never afford it,” I replied.

  “It is just for my pleasure,” he said, cutting a slice and handing it to me on a napkin. He cut himself a slice, too. We looked into each other’s eyes as the cheese melted into a moment.

  Okay, not quite, but you get the drift. Gelson’s is the place where food meets sex. On mornings like this when I’m so deeply attuned to my senses, I simply can’t stay away. I know it’s far beyond my budget, but what’s money compared to a ripe red plum? Man made mere money; God made the plum.

  I suppose I should have been somewhat concerned when I ate that red plum before paying for it. I’m not a thief, I never even shoplifted as a child; it’s not my vice of choice. But it was an irresistible impulse, and usually I work hard at restraining those because they’ve gotten me into such trouble before. But somehow, that morning, I didn’t even worry. It seemed perfectly natural to eat a plum in public, with the juices dribbling down my chin.

  The produce man appeared at my side. I thought he was going to haul me in for questioning, but instead he said, “The pluots are even better, Miss. Here, try one.” I started to decline, but his smile was so eager and the “Miss” so charming I had to accept. He called over his shoulder, “Enrique, bring a napkin,” and in an instant a young man was at my elbow. A young man, did I say? More like a Nijinsky fawn.