Modern Madness

by Terri Cheney

  I really want to start dating again. After endless bouts of dehumanizing depression, my libido is finally waking up and declaring it’s time. But the apparent consensus seems to be that I’m too breakable to venture back into love. “You’ll fall apart,” my best friend tells me. “Remember the last time you got rejected,” my therapist warns. And “Oh my God, not again,” my mother says, saying it best.

  But the blood is loud in my veins these days, so insistent it muffles these far-off voices of reason. All I want to hear is an earnest whisper in my ear, and I’ve got the whisperer all picked out. Yes, I want to say to him. Yes and yes. And who knows what might have happened if in the middle of our first kiss, he hadn’t pulled back, looked tenderly into my eyes, and said, “Please don’t fall in love with me.”

  That voice was a little harder to ignore. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You’re not hurting me,” I assured his worried eyes, smiling. “Far from it.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said, refusing to be distracted by my fingers’ light, slow dance on the back of his neck. I sighed, dropped my hands, and resigned myself to listening.

  “The last thing in the world I want is for you to get depressed again,” he said. “You’re just so… well, so…”

  “So what, exactly?”

  “Fragile,” he whispered into my ear, for all the world as if it were an endearment.

  It was brisk that night in Malibu; his balcony directly overlooked the beach. Our kiss—or rather, the feverish tension leading up to it—had made me forget about the cold altogether. But at the sound of that all-too-familiar word, I suddenly started to shiver.

  He asked me if I wanted a robe, and I nodded, teeth chattering too hard to speak. “Back in a minute,” he said, sliding the glass door shut behind him. I walked over to the edge of the balcony and stared down into the inscrutable black heart of the ocean. It was a calm, serene evening everywhere except inside my head. The full moon reflected off the surface of the water; it winked at me every time a wave rippled across its face. Quicksilver flashes shot through the breakers—little snatches of moonlight, perhaps, or a school of tiny phosphorescent fish. The elemental beauty of the scene quieted me. It was a simple problem, really, almost mathematical in nature: Did I dare to take this risk? If one kiss led to another, and another, and so on up the emotional investment scale, what were the odds of my survival?

  I have tremendous fear and respect for suicidal depression. My medications seemed to be working, but nobody really knows why, or how long they can conquer the devil incarnate. A chill went through my bones and my teeth sounded like castanets—all over one little kiss and a handful of damnably ambiguous words. What exactly did he mean by that, anyway: “You’re so fragile. Don’t fall in love with me…”

  Was he truly concerned about my safety? Or was he just an arrogant jerk? Or was he maybe, regrettably, right on the money? This last possibility sank in slowly, painfully. “Beware,” said the twitching moon in the water. “Beware,” said the undertow, sucking in its breath. A line of silver still flashed along the breaking waves, but now it looked like a cruel steel blade, slicing across the ocean’s throat. Can I handle love? I asked the night. I heard all my friends’ voices reverberating inside my head—and the chorus of “No, no, no” was almost as deafening as the surf.

  I was less angry than bewildered by the vote of no confidence ringing in my head. My friends seemed to share an underlying assumption that if I just didn’t get involved with a man, time would stand still and I’d keep getting better. But nature doesn’t work that way—especially not human nature; especially not when you’re bipolar and change is the only certainty you know.

  For all its tranquil beauty that night, the ocean had turbulent edges. As sure as the next rising wave would crash, I, too, would fall again—for some reason or other. It might as well be love.

  The click of the sliding door startled me back into the present, and again I shivered, this time from anticipation. He stepped out onto the balcony, carrying two thick white terry cloth robes: his and hers. He settled one around my shoulders, and the cold quickly became just another thing not to worry about for the moment. I held my face up to be kissed.

  COMING BACK/GOING FORWARD

  I’m so proud of myself for having emerged from depression—maybe not for ever, but for a good long while now. I thought I’d never come out the other side. Even though I wanted to stay curled up and morose, I persevered: I got up almost every morning, washed my face, brushed my teeth, made my bed, poached an egg. Tiny steps, but forward movement. And I got proactive with my psychiatrist. I urged him to tweak my medications because I refused to believe that my fight was over, that this was as good as life gets.

  Maybe it’s the change in meds, or diligent use of all my coping skills, or maybe it’s just plain dumb luck that I’ve cycled out of depression. Or maybe it’s the lovely weather. Who knows? The truth is, one can never be absolutely certain why it comes, or why it goes, despite years of therapy and hard-won insight. Sure, I know my triggers—mostly financial stress and relationship issues these days—and that’s valuable information. But it doesn’t explain why, out of a pure lucent sky, malaise can suddenly rain down on me.

  Now that I feel so much better, it’s easier to see the links: oh, that happened, and then I got depressed. But when you’re deep inside it, you can see only as far as the gloom will allow. That’s what loved ones are for: to remind you of the light. Otherwise, I might believe I’m being punished when I relapse—that I’ve somehow done wrong, and this is the price I must pay. Nonsense, I know. But many things seem true in depression that are actually phantom pain, wounds from the past. It can be hard to let them go.

  That’s why the act of witnessing has become so essential to me. It honors what I’ve been through but puts it back where it belongs: in the past tense. So I always smile when people ask me, “Isn’t it traumatic to write about your illness?” Hell, no. It gives me a sense of control, even mastery over what I’ve endured. I’ve learned so much from watching my own journey. Experience has given me awareness, and I think that awareness has saved my life.

  On a good day, like this luxuriant spring afternoon, I even believe that I command my illness. I believe I’m in charge of my feelings and reactions—that I have the freedom of choice to make my own mistakes, or to do the right thing. Is this the hubris of hypomania speaking? No, I think it’s the way other people feel, who aren’t beset by mental illness: like their lives are theirs to control.

  What an extraordinary feeling! What a gift! To know, even for a while, anticipation when I wake up in the morning and gratitude when I end the day. It’s all I ask for. I’m not after feeling high, or giddily manic: all I want is a reprieve from overwrought emotions. The most splendid thing on this earth, I’ve learned, isn’t joy. It’s the cessation of pain.

  I notice a quiet in my mind, which had clamored with cruel, nasty thoughts not so very long ago. Now I see a swarm of bees around a branch of bougainvillea, and I don’t think they’re there to sting me. I watch a squirrel run up a tree in my backyard, and I don’t once notice his resemblance to a rat. Life is not all romance and roses, but the sun is warm on my face and when I close my eyes to enjoy it, no chilling thoughts intrude.

  I tiptoe around my newfound respite, afraid to disturb it or scare it away. I wonder where it’s headed, but that’s just a passing thought that I’m able to brush away like the bee that ventures too close to me. I wish I could say without any doubt whatsoever why I was shackled for so long, and why those chains no longer bind me. But I don’t waste my freedom trying to figure it out. There’s no definitive answer, and I know it. There’s only this mercy, and this April afternoon.

  THE PAST IS JUST THE BEGINNING

  I used to ruminate—sometimes I still do—about who I was before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. On difficult days, I measure everything against it: What could I do back then that I ca
n’t do now? I used to be able to work around the clock. I used to have a photographic memory. I used to hop on a helicopter to Catalina for the weekend. The past is like schmutz on a black cashmere sweater—I try to shake it off, but it’s too tenacious. I’m haunted by my used-to-be’s.

  The other day I ran into a lawyer I knew from my former law firm in Beverly Hills. He was a young associate then; I was his unofficial mentor. I taught him traditional ways to cheat without getting into trouble—by using old forms instead of thinking new thoughts, for example, or billing out every phone call at a minimum quarter of an hour. Little tricks of the lucrative trade, which had been passed down to me and which I gratefully used. By virtue of our teacher/student relationship, I was his de facto superior, and that was understood between us.

  No more. He was dressed in muted elegance: an Italian gray-green suit and loafers with little gold “G” buckles, whispering their provenance. I could almost smell the rich dark leather of his briefcase, which was weathered to perfection. Understatement like that doesn’t come cheap; in fact, he reeked of success. I, on the other hand, had just emerged from my writing café, where I’d spent several annoying hours wrestling with intransigent verbs. My seen-better-days sweater was rumpled, the elbows nearly worn through. My jeans had a hole in the knee that wasn’t intended as a fashion statement.

  We exchanged the usual opening salvos, then got down to the grit of it:

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  I shook my head no. He showed me a picture of his wife.

  “Kids?”

  “Um, no.” More photos: twins.

  “Where are you working now?” he asked.

  I pointed to the little café, and he didn’t understand. “That’s where I go to write,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said. A beat. “I remember you always wanted to write. Screenplays?”

  Hah! I rattled off my standard line: “I wrote a memoir that to my astonishment became a New York Times bestseller.” It was my brief shining moment in the sun, and I wanted to savor it, knowing all too well what would happen next.

  “Really?” he said. “What’s it called?”

  And there it was again, that damned title that continues to out me. I thought for a minute of making something else up, then caught a glimpse of myself in the café window. No, never, not for a million dollars. I faced down the devil in Gucci loafers and looked him straight in the eye.

  “It’s called Manic,” I said. “About my life with bipolar disorder.”

  “That’s terrific,” he said, without a single blink. He always was a good lawyer. “You know, I made partner,” he said.

  “Congratulations!” I said, and I sort of meant it at the time. After exchanging the obligatory let’s-do-lunches, we went our separate ways. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mostly I wanted to feel safe again from uncomfortable encounters. So I returned to the café and sat at my regular seat by the window. “Back so soon?” the waiter asked. “The usual?”

  I nodded, then all at once I realized that this was now my usual, not that faraway past. And this, too, was about to be my past—this very moment, and all the moments yet to come. There was no chance of holding on to them. They flee as soon as they materialize, like a frosty breath on a winter day. When my waiter came back with my latte, I saw that he’d drawn a big heart in the foam. I smiled. I’m right where I need to be, I thought. Here, now, at last.

  SECTION VIII

  Appendix

  RESOURCES

  THESE ARE RESOURCES I’VE FOUND helpful in my writing and my own recovery:

  ORGANIZATIONS

  National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)

  Website: https://www.nami.org

  Facebook: https:/www.facebook.com/NAMI

  Helpline: 1-800-950-6264

  This is one of the primary sources I recommend to the public. It’s especially useful for loved ones seeking information and support, and it offers free local support and training groups.

  International Bipolar Foundation

  Website: https://ibpf.org

  Twitter: @IntlBipolar

  Phone: 1-858-598-5967

  Started by parents of children with bipolar disorder, the foundation is now international in scope. By contacting the website, you can sign up for their My Support newsletter; obtain a copy of their book, Healthy Living with Bipolar Disorder; and access expert lectures and archived webinars on fascinating topics.

  American Association of Suicidology

  Website: https://suicidology.org

  A 501(c)(3) nonprofit association dedicated to the understanding and prevention of suicide.

  The Mighty

  Website: https://themighty.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MentalHealthOnTheMighty

  Twitter: @TheMightySite

  A news compendium and support site for the mental health community, also a forum for sharing personal stories.

  Alcoholics Anonymous

  Website: https://www.aa.org

  Twitter: @AlcoholicsAA

  A twelve-step program for anyone seeking help with a substance abuse problem. AA is nonprofessional, self-supporting, multiracial, apolitical, and available almost everywhere. There is no age requirement. Help with narcotics abuse is also available at Narcotics Anonymous, https://www.na.org.

  Didi Hirsch Mental Health Services

  Website: https://didihirsch.org

  For mental health or substance use services: 1-888-807-8250

  For suicide prevention: 1-800-273-8255

  Didi Hirsch provides suicide prevention, mental health, and substance use services to communities where stigma or poverty limits access. Their Suicide Prevention Center in L.A. is the first, and one of the most comprehensive, in the nation.

  Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA)

  Website: https://www.dbsalliance.org

  DBSA offers free in-person and online peer support groups for people living with a mood disorder, as well as their friends and family. Parents who have a child living with depression or bipolar disorder can join the online community for parents, the Balanced Mind Parent Network.

  Saks Institute for Mental Health Law, Policy, and Ethics

  Website: https://gould.usc.edu/faculty/centers/saks/

  Founded by acclaimed author, law professor, and MacArthur Genius Grant recipient Elyn Saks, who lives with schizophrenia. Located at USC, the Saks Institute is a think tank and research institute that studies issues at the intersection of law, mental health, and ethics. It also influences policy reform and advocacy actions for improved treatment of people with mental illness.

  CRISIS RESOURCES

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

  1-800-273-8255

  Crisis Text Line

  Website: https://www.crisistextline.org/

  Text HOME to 741741

  The Trevor Project

  Website: https://www.thetrevorproject.org

  1-866-488-7386

  A nonprofit organization focused on suicide prevention efforts among LGBTQ youth.

  SAMHSA Helpline (Treatment Referral Routing Service)

  Website: https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline

  1-800-662-4357

  The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration provides referrals to local treatment facilities, support groups, and community-based organizations for individuals with mental health and/or substance abuse issues.

  Vets4Warriors

  Website: https://www.vets4warriors.com

  1-855-838-8255

  A 24/7 confidential support network committed to ensuring that all veterans, service members, their families, and caregivers always have direct and immediate access to a peer who understands their life experiences and the challenges they face.

  UCLA Dual Diagnosis Program

  Website: https://www.semel.ucla.edu/dual-diagnosis-program/Our_Program

  Information and admissions: 1-310-983-3598

  300 Medical Plaza, S
te. 2400, Los Angeles, CA 90025

  An eight-week outpatient program for individuals with co-occurring mental illness and substance abuse issues. It includes daily groups, individual therapy, and medication management.

  READING AND VIEWING RECOMMENDATIONS

  In addition to my own books, Manic: A Memoir (about my adult life with bipolar disorder) and The Dark Side of Innocence: Growing Up Bipolar (about my childhood), I recommend the following:

  Psychology Today: I write an ongoing blog for Psychology Today magazine called “The Bipolar Lens,” https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-bipolar-lens. The magazine’s website also offers a terrific “Find a Therapist” resource, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us.

  Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, by William Styron

  An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness, by Kay Redfield Jamison

  The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness, by Elyn Saks

  The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, by Andrew Solomon

  Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament, by Kay Redfield Jamison

  A Beautiful Mind, by Sylvia Nasar

  Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania, by Andy Behrman

  The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, by Mark Haddon

  Beautiful Boy: A Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Addiction, by David Sheff