Out of a Clear Blue Sky?

Bipolar is not an adjective.  I think I first remembering hearing it in a Katy Perry song.  I’ve heard it in the last couple years in casual conversation, and have even heard it used to describe the weather.  Before my own personal experiences with loved ones battling mental illness, I likely would have fallen right in with everyone else who uses it as a descriptor. 

 In fact, I am mortified to find I did just this on one of my more recent blogs describing my husband’s grooming habits as “OCD”.  I must apologize from the bottom of my heart for that one.  While I do believe that we all have a little something going on to a lesser or greater, it is not respectful to use an illness to describe someone’s habits or personality.

When I hear someone using “bi-polar” casually in such a way, I have the urge to sit them down and tell them what it really means, and how deeply it can affect an individual and their family.  Both the fathers of my two children, and my daughter have carried this diagnosis- and I say “carry” because it is truly a heavy burden.  Without the right supports, a person will find themselves unable to even stand, let alone walk.

A lot of people have asked me if Cory’s illness just struck out of a clear blue sky when she hit puberty.  At the time, it certainly seemed that way.  The symptoms were subtle to begin with, and could be easily mistaken for the general angst of being a teenager these days…especially a teenage whose parents had recently separated…especially a teenager who was looking for her identity, and used MySpace to find her biological father whom she hadn’t seen or talked to in over ten years.  A lot of changes had taken place in Cory’s life at the same time.   Naturally, she felt stressed.  Some adjustment problems were to be expected, but it was when her behaviors began spiraling out of control, that I began looking for answers.

As a child, Cory always had a temper.  I thought, well, she’s just like her father.  Everyone knew her biological father had a temper, could be argumentative, and was hard to get along with at times.  Other times, he was the single most charming guy you’d ever meet, a guy with a great heart, and the life of every gathering.  While he had developed a reputation for his behaviors, being called “crazy” to “psycho” to plain old “asshole”, it was never known why he behaved the way he did.  Why did he get frustrated so easily?  Why did he go from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye?  Why could he not get along in life without turning to substances?

Getting a correct diagnosis depends hugely on family history.  Mental illness isn’t something a lot of folks are eager to talk about.  Imagine my surprise to find out there were several people on his side of the family that had these exact same issues.  As I ticked off the symptoms, it wasn’t just Cory’s face that I saw, it was her biological father’s as well.  It was so validating to finally see in black and white that there was something wrong with the way his brain worked; he had an illness; there was a legitimate reason for some of his erratic behaviors.

 It was as Dr. Z went down the list of life situations that occur with untreated major mental illness (school failure, job instability, involvement in the justice system, substance abuse, homelessness, family discord, relationship problems, financial struggles, suicide), that everything fell into place.  I remember thinking at the time it was one of the most important discoveries of my life.  There was a reason for his behaviors, and by God it wasn’t me.  I could feel the uncomfortable sense of guilt that every woman who’s been in an abusive relationship must feel just slip right off my shoulders.  The yoke was off.  I could forgive now.  I could stop carrying that hatred that had boiled and festered in my heart for the last decade.  The problem was, as that hate faded away, all that was left was the love I still had, and the desire for him to be whole.  Let’s be frank, shall we?  When does the abused stop loving the abuser?  If you find out, please let me know. 

So, I went right back into the lion’s den, taking him by the hand and leading him to the nearest mental health facility to be counseled, diagnosed, and prescribed medication.  I had hope the size of the world.  I loved this man, and wondered who he would be when he was free of the symptoms that had plagued him most of his life.  Could he be a father?  Could he be a husband?  Could we finally be a family?

Unfortunately, he, like so many others, would not remain in treatment.  I finally had to accept that I could not change him.  I could not make him take the steps needed to be well, and stay well.  It was difficult because it is hard to watch someone you care deeply about suffering, and not be able to help them.  It’s even harder to know you can’t help them because they don’t want the help. 

It felt like this:

I hadn’t heard from him in three or four days, and neither had Cory.  This was highly unusual.  He liked to keep close tabs.  He craved control, especially of me.  At first, when he asked me to call him as soon as I got home each time I left his sight, I thought it was caring and romantic- a return to chivalry, perhaps. 

            So to have not heard from him was strange.  I called, but didn’t get an answer.  I texted, but didn’t get a response.  He lived alone, and he wasn’t working.  I began to worry, and wonder if he was okay.  I couldn’t check with his mom to see when she’d last heard from him.  We’d become estranged since the last break up.  Her love for me, and even for the kids, was conditional, contingent on whether or not I was taking care of her son.  When we were on, I was “Angel” and could do no wrong.  When we were off, I ceased to exist.  She loved him dearly, and had a hard time making sure his needs were met from so far away.  I was an acceptable surrogate, whether I realized it at the time or not.

            One day after work, I decided to drop by his house to see if he was sick.  I was already wondering how it would play out if he needed to go to the doctor or the emergency room.  He had no insurance and wouldn’t complete the paperwork needed to get state assistance.  Maybe I’d have to call his mom after all, as much as I dreaded the thought.  I knocked and waited.  Nothing.  I knocked some more and tried to peek in through the front windows, but all the blinds were closed.  I couldn’t see a thing.  The house looked pretty dark for early evening.  I went back to the door and pounded.  He must be sleeping.  He slept like a rock and was not a ray of sunshine when woken.   Finally, his face appeared in the tiny window at the top of the door.  He looked out cautiously, saw my face, and began to fumble with the locks.  I noticed he had the chain drawn. 

            “Hey, are you ok?  We were getting worried.”  I said, stepping inside.

            “I’m fine.”  He mumbled.  I looked him over.  I had last seen him about a week ago. He didn’t appear to have bathed or changed clothes since.  His thick, dark hair was a rat’s nest.  He looked unwell, as if he hadn’t been sleeping.  I glanced past him into the house, the part I could see.  It was a mess.   Garbage and dirty dishes jockeyed for space on every available surface.  He was a bachelor for all purposes, sure, but this was not like him.

            He shuffled out of the living room and into the bathroom, and shut the door.  As he voided his bladder, I took the opportunity to peek inside his room; I was half-expecting to see a bunch of beer bottles, maybe even a rolled up dollar bill and a mirror on his nightstand.  Imagine my surprise to see none of those things, just a bunch of mirrors propped up all over the place.  It looked as though he had brought every mirror in the house into his room and set them up all over.  He had also rigged a sort of make shift ramp from his mattress to the floor.  What in the world?

            When I asked, he told me he’d been seeing things and hearing people in the house.  He was scared; the mirrors made him feel safe because he could see into the shadows.

            “What is that?”  I asked, pointing to the makeshift ramp.

            “That’s so the girl won’t grab my ankles when I get out of bed.”  he answered.

            My eyes widened.  “What girl?”  I asked.

            “The dead girl that lives under my bed.”  he said matter of factly.

            “The dead girl?”  I repeated.

            “Yeah, I’ve seen her.  She’s not nice.  She waits for me.  She watches and she waits cause she knows sooner or later I’m gonna have to get up and go pee.”  he whispered.  He sounded all of five years old.

            I took a deep breath.  I smiled gently and looked into his eyes.  I asked him if he was putting me on, did he really believe there was a dead girl under his bed?  Say no, say no, say no. 

            He fetched the deepest sigh and said, “Look, Nick, you don’t have to believe me.  That’s fine.  I saw her.  She’s real and she’s after me.  They all are.”  He raked his hands through his hair and then cradled his head in his hands.  He rocked gently back and forth.

            “But, babe– “ I began.

            “Shhh!  Don’t talk so loud.  She’ll hear you.”  he warned, his eyes wide.  He shivered.  After that, he clammed up and wouldn’t say another word about it.  He explained that he hadn’t showered because he was just too tired, and besides, every time he got in the shower, he heard someone in the house.  He’d get out, walk around checking all the rooms, and double checking the windows and doors were locked.  Sometimes along the way, he’d hear a sound behind him and circle back to search more thoroughly.  When he finally worked his way back to the bathroom, convinced the house was empty of prowlers, he’d step back in the shower, only to hear someone again.  The whole process would repeat itself until the hot water was a faint memory and he was in a complete panic.  “It’s just not worth it.”  he told me.

            Seeing him like this, so obviously ill, all was immediately forgiven.  He looked tortured.  It hurt my heart just to look at him.  Images of him flooded my mind:   sitting up in bed bare chested, reading a book with the aide of his “spectacles”,  teasing Cory by putting a set of paper bushy eyebrows he’d drawn  on the fridge to represent her new boy band crush,  eating popcorn with Jake while they watched the fights,  standing back to survey his lawn work.  I just couldn’t reconcile those images with this dirty, scared, delusional little man.  They just didn’t jibe.  In the same way, I couldn’t reconcile the man whose touch when given in love gave me goosebumps with the man who in years past had easily backed me up against a wall… screaming, spitting in my face, and throwing whatever was at hand.  That wasn’t really him, either.   It was more like some mean-spirited little demon living in his brain had gotten to fooling around in there, pushing buttons and flipping switches at random, but with malicious glee. 

He huddled on his bed… well away from the edge.  I held him.  Then I put my head to his chest and listened to the beat of his heart that must be under strain after all it had been through– not just from the past few days of fear and anxiety, but from a lifetime of drinking and drugs that surely must have taken their toll.  I wondered all too often when it would simply give out like an old watch that someone had neglected to wind.  Was this my safe place?  How could it be when even its owner felt under siege from things he didn’t understand?  I pondered this for another moment before starting to care for him like I would one of my children.

            I sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom and kept him company while he showered.  I tidied up the place and took out the garbage.  I asked him when he had last eaten to discover he wasn’t sure.  In the kitchen, I found empty cupboards and a fridge housing sour milk and questionable hot dogs.  Nothing else.  He wasn’t sure, but thought his mom had loaded his debit card so he could get groceries.   When I asked if he’d heard from his mom lately, he said no.  The phone had been ringing, but it was in the kitchen.  It was easier to stay in bed…safer.  His cell phone had been shut off.  He hadn’t paid the bill again.

            I hopped in my car and headed to the store to get him a few things:  milk, cereal, some soup, bread, and peanut butter.  Pulling back into his driveway, replaying the things he’d told me, I knew he needed much more than clean clothes and food to eat.  This wasn’t a common cold; chicken soup was just not going to do it.  He needed professional help.  But would he be willing to get it?