What is it like to be in a relationship with someone who has bipolar? Well, that depends on the person, and on the type and severity of their illness. I haven't been writing lately because my husband, Tim, has been in the grips of a bad depressive episode. While I found I could usually roll with the punches pre-accident, post-accident is an entirely different story. I nearly found myself wondering if that horrid therapist hadn't been on to something when she skated right up to the edge of telling me to leave my husband. It is a life-long illness. It can be all consuming. I am struggling with my own mental health. Is it really my job to carry every adult male with bipolar that crosses my path? How do you carry someone on your back when you are crawling yourself?
By threatening to leave him (and he knew I wasn't bluffing, as we'd had this exact conversation nearly seven years ago, shortly followed by a LENGTHY separation), I spurred him into resuming his meds, changing doctors, and mowing the lawn. Beyond that, it was a waiting game...waiting for the meds to work, waiting to see if he would continue to take them even when he began to feel better, waiting to see if I could hold everything together without either losing my mind or simply walking away.
Dr. Z said being in a relationship with someone who has bipolar goes something like this, "I love you to pieces! I hate your face!". It is stressful, confusing, and often painful for all parties involved. What he didn't say, but I knew from past experiences: the low parts were hell, but the highs! The highs took you into the clouds and climbing. There may be no other feeling in the world like the adoration of a man with bipolar. To be that object of affection, even fleetingly, is to be the goddess, the queen, the princess...heady stuff.
With Bob, it was just as Dr. Z stated. I was either his sole reason for living or he wished to do me grave bodily harm. With Tim, though, it's a lot different. His highs have always been much less pronounced, and his lows much more prevalent. Life with him goes something like this: when he is hypo-manic, I can get the man to do many things with the mere tilt of my eyes; when he is depressed, I become invisible. He isolates himself from the few people in his personal life, and retreats into the shelter of sleep. A doting husband will, seemingly overnight, become a complete stranger living in my home.
The man who was my lifeline after Cory's death gradually became a sort of boarder, coming and going without any type of acknowledgement. It got so bad that if we crossed paths in the hallway, he would turn his body sideways to avoid brushing up against me. He left his bed for only the gravest of obligations- food, work, toilet. When I tried to encourage him to get help, he became argumentative, accusatory, and irrational. I began to wonder...am I really here, again? Am I really? And if I am, why am I staying?
Perhaps because I've been so depressed myself. I've held on, too exhausted to take action of any sort. I try to keep reminding myself no one chooses to be depressed.
So a few days ago, Tim returned. The day before he'd been the same grumpy, distant lump that shuffled between his bed and the couch. The next day when I got home from work, my husband was there. It was the most peculiar thing. Even his walk was different, as if someone had dialed up a switch on his back, and gotten him going again. He picked his feet up when he walked, instead of just pushing them forward as if they were twin blocks of concrete. There was light in his eyes. He was able to make and maintain eye contact. He was talking...voluntarily.
What the hell? The meds finally caught? His cycle ended? I didn't know. I was just deliriously happy to see he was indeed back, and had returned before I'd given up, and jumped ship.
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