Modern Madness

by Terri Cheney

  Then I heard it, in the midst of the mêlée: a single high, unwavering note, like the voice of an angel slicing straight through the babel. I pushed my way toward it, not caring how many toes I stepped on or how many packages I knocked out of arms. All the while, it hung there, waiting for me to find it. And finally, I did: It was coming from a beautiful young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, standing in a small carved-out space of her own. She wore threadbare jeans and sandals despite the cold, and there was a woven basket at her feet with a few bills and some change in it.

  The girl was singing, a cappella, a song I’ve always loved: “Ave Maria.” She sang in Latin, just the way I’d learned it from the nuns: “Ave Maria, gratia plena…” The noise and the tumult and my own inner cacophony disappeared. I closed my eyes and was transported back into the stillness of the nave, the dusky smell of incense, the hush of a hundred souls praying, and above it all the choirboys’ pure “Ave, ave dominus, dominus tecum.”

  When she finished, I wanted to wail. Everything I’d told myself before was a lie. My life was not fine at all; it was buried in the bottom of a whiskey glass and I couldn’t find it no matter how deeply I drank. In the space of a few seconds, just a few notes really, my mood had careened out of control and I was no longer the person in charge. I dumped all the money I had in my purse into the girl’s basket, easily a couple hundred dollars, to make up for my sins. She smiled at me and I knew everything was going to be all right again, but then someone darted in from the crowd and snatched up the basket.

  I saw him, a tall skinny kid wearing a Lakers cap. He zigged and zagged and I ran after him, screaming “Thief! Thief!” But no one heard or no one cared because the tide just kept flowing toward me and I was trapped and he was getting away. Then he tripped over a baby stroller, and I was about to catch up with him in the intersection when someone grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back onto the sidewalk. A cop.

  “No, let me go, he’s getting away,” I shouted, and tugged myself free of his grip.

  “The light’s red, and you’re not going anywhere,” he said, snatching me back, both hands on my shoulders.

  “But you don’t understand, he stole all the money and you’re in my way—” and then I lost sight of the boy. I spun around and let the cop have it.

  “That poor girl, she doesn’t even have proper shoes, and he stole all her money and you just stood there and let him get away, like a big fat stupid cow.”

  He flushed red, and pulled me closer. “What did you say?” he said. I repeated the insult, yelling to be heard over the din.

  “Smells like someone’s been drinking tonight,” he said. “Let’s see some I.D.”

  Maybe if I’d been in my right mind I would have pulled out my driver’s license and apologized. But I was furious and beneath that, scared to death—drunk and disorderly in public might get me disciplined or even disbarred. Maybe if I cooperated, I’d get off easy, but all my instincts said, yeah right. So I shrugged off his meaty hands and made a motion as if to search through my purse. Then I turned tail and ran for my life.

  I heard him shouting after me, and I was terrified. Resisting arrest, what do they give you for that? But I have to admit I was exhilarated, too. I melted like hot butter into the crowd, as if this was what I’d been meant to do all my life: evade the law, not enforce it. Like an animal, I knew exactly where I needed to go—I had to hide in the darkest hole I could find. And there it was, right in front of me.

  A long line stretched out in front of the multiplex, but it meant nothing to me. When I’m manic, I never wait in line. I brazened my way up to the front, flashed my ticket, and ran to the very last theater in the back, where the cop would never find me. As the lights went down, I finally began to get calm, my heartbeat returning to normal. I’d always felt at home at the movies, safe in the anonymous dark. And I had to laugh at the irony: the film was Basic Instinct.

  I sat through it twice, not venturing out until after midnight. The Promenade had quieted down, the shoppers and street performers gone. The cop was long gone, too, I hoped. But I took no chances—I dashed to my car. And I didn’t return to the Promenade for years after that, until I was good and sober and could hear what my body was trying to tell me.

  By then, honesty had caught up with me, and I wanted to make amends. Not to the cop—I wasn’t evolved enough for that—but to the girl. I realized what had happened that night was as much my fault as the tall skinny kid’s. If I hadn’t made that grand, impulsive, manic gesture of tossing all my money away, the boy probably wouldn’t have stolen her basket and she’d have headed tranquilly home that night, with her evening’s wages safely in hand.

  Whenever I’ve visited the Promenade since, I’ve listened for that angel’s voice. But as often as I’ve looked for her, I’ve never found her again. Now I feel guilty whenever I hear my beloved “Ave Maria.” There’s no such thing as a clean escape. Not when you’re manic. Not if you care.

  A WALKING WOUND: REJECTION SENSITIVITY

  I’d been working on a story for my writing group for an unusually long time, and I finally felt it was ready. Actually, I thought it was some of my best writing ever—all about love and loss and the rhapsody of desire. Deep stuff, embroidered by lyrical metaphors of which I was rather proud. I care deeply for the people in my group, and I wanted to reward their kindness to me with some beautiful words.

  When I read the piece aloud I enunciated as clearly as possible, fully savoring each syllable as it left my lips. The room was very quiet: no coughs or twitching or yawns, which is usually a good sign for a writer. I felt triumphant when I reached the last line. I had that marvelous sensation of having picked out just the right gift for someone you love.

  Except they didn’t like it.

  They didn’t come right out and say that, but there was extended critique about a point I felt was totally irrelevant. I wanted to protest, “But you don’t get it, I made that perfectly clear at the beginning, and here, and here, and there, and what you’re suggesting would change the whole piece.” But I kept quiet and jotted down some of the notes because when enough people disagree with you, it’s time to take heed. Not that I thought they were right, but they had my attention and reluctant respect.

  The whole event took maybe twenty minutes, although while it was happening it felt interminable. I looked forward to becoming anonymous again, for the spotlight to shine on someone else. But part of me dreaded it being over because I knew that was when my personal critique would start. Once I wasn’t wearing my civilized public face anymore, my primitive insides would take over and I’d tear myself apart.

  Like this: “You can’t write. You never could. You’re only deluding yourself. Look, these people are your dearest friends and even they don’t like your story. Who are you fooling, trying to write? Stop it, you’re only embarrassing yourself. Go sit in a corner and shut up.”

  Criticism and I have never made friends. It doesn’t take much of it for me to lose my bearings, to feel lost in a tortuous maze of doubt. Although I know my reaction is intense and excessive, I also know I’m not alone in this. When I facilitated a support group at UCLA, time and again I’d watch the patients relentlessly focus on the smallest slights, which would send them spiraling down into depression and even suicidal despair. A word here, a look there, and suddenly the entire world turned malevolent.

  I understood this with all my heart. I even understood it clinically. A psychiatrist once explained to me that a key symptom of bipolar disorder is “extreme rejection sensitivity.” I remember wanting to hug him for those words. How lovely—a medical term that made sense of my life. I’d always thought my propensity to wound too easily was a fatal flaw in my makeup, a mortifying example of how weak and narcissistic and frail I truly am. I never imagined it was part of my diagnosis.

  The solution to this hypersensitivity may be cocooned in time. I’ve repeatedly heard people say that as they grow older, they care less and less what others think of them. That makes the w
hole process of aging more tenable to me. I doubt that I’ll ever feel happy when I don’t get praise; I just hope I won’t immediately start drafting my epitaph. I look forward to a day when I’m wizened and feisty enough not to give a damn anymore, to be able to hold on to my own opinion in spite of what other people say. All by myself, without any drugs: a white-haired whippersnapper, who knows what she knows. And writes what she wants. And it’s fine.

  THE VIRTUES OF BEING RUDE: BAD BORDERS

  Outwardly, things felt safe enough. I was sitting in my favorite café, at my favorite table, writing or at least making plans to write. This is my nirvana spot: it’s cozy, familiar, not really quiet but tolerable with ear plugs in. I’d just ordered my usual lunch—a cup of gazpacho with five-grain bread—when the man at the table next to me asked me what I was writing.

  “A book,” I said, hoping that was a vague enough answer to dissuade him from further small talk. It wasn’t.

  “What kind of book?” he asked.

  I gave him the shorthand answer. “A memoir.” I’ve found that a lot of people don’t know what a memoir is, so rather than look ignorant they stop the conversation right there. It’s worked often enough before.

  “What’s a memoir?” he said.

  Great. A talker. Right next to me, so close our bodies would have touched if either had extended a hand. “It’s a book about yourself,” I said. Damn it, I knew what was coming next. I haven’t found the right shut-up answer to that question yet, in spite of years of trying.

  And sure enough: “So what have you done that makes you interesting enough to write about?”

  This is where I usually get them to stop. I take out my big guns of discomfort and stigma and let them have it, full barrel: “I have bipolar disorder,” I say. “I write about that.”

  But this guy wasn’t deterred. “What’s bipolar disorder?” he said.

  Ah, come on. I gave him my stock answer. “It’s a mental illness that causes extreme mood swings,” I said.

  The waitress came with my meal then, and I hoped that my feigned fervent interest in my food would signal my reluctance to talk further. Nope.

  “I have mood swings,” he said. “Everybody has mood swings. What makes you so special?”

  Twelve little words were all I needed to reclaim my equanimity: “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to my writing now.” But somehow, I couldn’t say them. I was so irritable I was afraid I’d bark them out and hurt his feelings. Then I feared he’d retaliate against me somehow. I wasn’t thinking this through at the time, but it’s how I operate—I don’t put up borders until it’s way too late to make the attempt.

  He badgered me throughout the rest of my meal, although perhaps I shouldn’t say “badgered.” Maybe he was just curious, and not very good at taking social cues. But I felt intensely observed the entire time: Every sip of soup was an ordeal, every bite of bread a challenge. I hate being watched while I eat, it makes me very self-conscious. And then I had to answer his persistent questions while trying to chew my food.

  Finally, he left and I was alone with my opened computer and empty page. I was furious that I hadn’t been more assertive. “You’re always such a wimp,” I told myself. “You should never go out in public.” That was the moment I should have seen depression coming, and didn’t. Instead of reaching for my keyboard, I reached for another slice of bread and the jar of heavenly hazelnut spread that comes with it. I’ve faced down this particular spread before—it’s a true weakness of my flesh, and usually I avoid it like the plague. But that afternoon, instead of just paying the check or calling my therapist or texting a friend or doing any one of the myriad interventions possible, I went straight for the hazelnut spread.

  I ate the whole bottle, spoonful by spoonful, feeling worse with each delicious bite. Even when I ran out of bread, I just kept shoveling it in. It’s not like me to lose control of myself like this in public. Usually I wait until I get home. But my agitation was so intense, I felt like I’d die if I didn’t stuff it down—like I was the verbal equivalent of an Uzi and was about to fire at the next poor soul who tried to talk to me.

  When the jar was finally empty, I left. I felt miserable and bloated, and knew what was waiting at home for me: more binging, until I was so uncomfortably full and disgusted with myself I’d fall asleep. Then there would be the writhings of remorse, until the depression had finally run its course. All because I didn’t know how to fight for my little corner of solitude to keep me sane.

  I’ve vowed that the next time this happens—because it will, it happens to me all the time—I’ll risk hurting the intruder’s feelings and put up whatever fences I can, as fast as I can, to protect myself. Maybe this isn’t an issue for other people, but I think for the acutely sensitive it’s a true dilemma. A safe place is more than a luxury. We need our walls, even if they offend those trying to look in. It isn’t rude. It’s survival.

  GOOD COPING SKILLS

  “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

  —George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950)

  “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”

  —Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919)

  The ability to soothe ourselves in the face of stress is more than just a handy technique. Some psychoanalysts see it as an art form, the most critical of all our psychic tools. It’s a life skill that most people learn—or don’t learn—from their parents. But of course, the learning need not stop there.

  New tools for managing negative emotions are a hot topic in mental health at the moment, although much of the excitement revolves around skills that were developed long ago and are only now being rediscovered. Mindfulness, for example, or meditation, or self-compassion: these are ancient wisdoms, repackaged to look fresh and shiny.

  Relatively recent practices like dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) are particularly successful with emotion regulation. Similarly, cognitive reframing and distraction techniques help manage stress, as does thought-stopping (in its simplest form, snap a rubber band on your wrist to divert yourself from ruminations or cravings. It works, even if you do get a bit bruised in the process).

  Ultimately, adaptive tools that promote skills to cope with anxiety, increase a sense of control, and lead to reduced stress levels “may not only affect physiologic stress systems, but also restore damaged systems that could otherwise result in pathology and dysfunction.” Researchers even believe that fostering these skills in at-risk youth may eventually help circumvent socioeconomic or racial mental health disparities (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4442090/).

  If coping is an art form, we’re all innate artists. Good coping means letting your best instincts inspire you—and being vigilant about listening to that angel on your shoulder.

  A DOSE OF BEAUTY

  I was standing in front of a Turner painting, which depicted a storm at sea. At least I thought that’s what it depicted—it was a late Turner so it was pretty abstract, and there were too many people in front of the curator’s card for me to read the title. For a moment I was fidgety, wishing I were all alone in the museum and knew exactly what I was seeing. But then I thought, did it really matter? I liked getting lost in the sensuous swirl of textures and colors, all merging and melting into each other. Whatever it was, it was lovely.

  That’s exactly how I felt about my bipolar disorder at that moment. I knew it was doing strange things to my brain—but whatever it was, it was lovely. I suspected that what I was feeling right then wasn’t what the other people around me were feeling. They weren’t tasting that particular shade of saturated blue; that lonesome patch of yellow green in the corner—a lost ship, perhaps—didn’t make them want to cry. I doubt they were inside the painting like I was, intensely aware of every brushstroke, every seemingly random smudge of impasto. They may have had the advantage of knowing what they were seeing, but they didn’t know what it was like to swallow it whole.

  Art has redeemed me; it’s made me want
to live. I can’t count the number of times I’ve woken up in the morning determined to kill myself, then gone to a museum or gallery instead and forgotten all about it. I sometimes think if I’d grown up in a cultural mecca like New York City or Washington, DC, my life would have had a completely different trajectory. I’d be saner, or at least I’d have a safe haven for my intensity. Whenever my illness overwhelmed me, I’d just go take a hit of beauty.

  But I’m fortunate enough. If I really need art, the Hammer Museum near UCLA is only a few minutes away. The permanent collection is small, but should speak volumes to anyone who’s bipolar. It boasts two very disparate van Goghs: one of a bleak and dreary rectory garden in winter, all somber browns and grays. The other he painted at the end of his life, in the asylum at Saint-Rémy. It’s the van Gogh style most people know and love: bold, vibrant colors and flame-like strokes, the trees so alive they seem to be dancing.

  Ever since I first laid eyes on these two paintings, I had a mission: to see them hung together. For some ridiculous reason, they were always placed at opposite ends of the gallery. I wrote letters, made phone calls, and pestered the staff whenever I visited. Maybe somebody heard me, or maybe somebody finally just got it; because the last time I was there, the paintings were hung side by side. Seen separately, you’d think they were by two different artists, the moods and the execution are that far apart. But seen together, they’re a portrait of the astonishing schism of which one soul is capable: manic depression incarnate.

  I seriously doubt whether van Gogh could ever have witnessed the waltz in those trees, or captured the ache in that wintry garden, if he hadn’t been bipolar. It’s a cursed gift, and all of us who are drawn this way should appreciate this. It makes me suicidal, yes; it also gives me an exquisite sensitivity. My depressions force me to look at the world as it really is, so I’m privy to truth, however stark it may be. But mania lets me see past truth and into possibility—like the frenzy in a sunflower, or the white-hot brilliance of a starry night.