Personal Stories

Life way up in the northern latitudes, cycling between seasons of too much sun and then winters of darkness, seems natural enough to inhabitants there. And like such seasons, my mild form of bipolar disorder seemed close-enough-to-normal so as not to raise much suspicion. But my family had that sinking feeling something wasn’t right and it hurt.

My sunny seasons produced poems and books and lots of activity. But the winters were dreadfully dark and anxious. Plus, I was not joining the real world much, working in restaurants and not finding good opportunities to leverage my skills, talents and insight. After losing girlfriends (a med student said I had a “dual diagnosis” – but she may have missed a couple), dropping out of grad school, and being broke for extended periods, I finally found good doctors. They talked me through my troubles and fine-tuned the dosages of several medications.

Now if you met me you might be slightly bored—here’s a balding guy with a normal job, marriage and a family who likes to go camping and sailing with friends. But look a little closer and you might still see a wild and sad streak in his eyes. The look of someone trying a bit too hard to be normal and mainstream after illness forced him to behave strangely, a bit like an outsider.

My experiences lacked the lurid tales of manic episodes—no wild jags of public dancing wearing 200 necklaces like editors and filmmakers everywhere like to portray about mania. Just a tale of two settings, bipolarish, mild and hard to discover. For me it was staying up too late, writing poems and other essays extensively and partying a bit much. Then folding up in winter and suffering through the down cycles.

The flights from reality at the height of each season were intense. But the writing I was doing helped absorb the bumps—telling stories, exploring emotions, finding little truths—provided the landing gear I needed once the meds helped to resume life on firm ground. So yes, I’ve had the extreme, gut-churning anxiety and deathly-dark times. But the meds have worked so well for me, with so few side effects aside from some weight gain that it almost makes me forgive the depredations of the big drug companies.

Since those intense flights from reality, I’ve had a few groundings and airborne messes enough times to want to flee too much stress. Stress is uncomfortable for everyone, but it has that edge in my case. The fear that something worse might follow.

Back when I inhabited the northern latitudes I did break a girlfriend’s heart with an impulsive separation, which was a red flag some in my circle of family and friends noticed. I was cruel and insensitive—it’s true. And manic with the thought of having multiple relationships simultaneously.

Other signs included spending too much money, but I never entered crushing debt. Did I have racing thoughts during the manic episodes? More like jogging, although I did used to pile my dog in the car and drive up north to the lakes and run out of cash half-way and wonder why I had no gas to get home. This led to kiting small checks and a brush with the legal system, but nothing that couldn’t be expunged.

Mostly, I’m that character that will seldom appear in a movie or Lena Dunham story who takes his meds regularly and manages pretty well. Undramatic. Mainstream. Normal. Unless you’re me, in which case you’re sometimes haunted by the burn of too much or too little light. I also value sleep, and the blessing of each day of stability I get to spend that way on this graceful earth. The sleep almost above all else, having been deprived and made miserable due to the lack of it during the dark winters.

My bipolarish years were mild enough to be more embarrassing than anything else. Reading my old poems can induce cringes, but family and friends seem to like the better ones. And being embarrassed and mortified is a far cry from mortality and it’s important to remember that this disease can be lethal to some.

So as things stabilized, the meds and the therapy allowed my soul to “move south” to the middle latitudes where the world appeared more as it is instead of as a blur of pleasure or a sky of darkness. I also happened to move my body south to be with my then girlfriend, now wife. I am grateful that she wasn’t part of those northern latitude, bipolar years. It makes our relationship much clearer and less complicated without the heaviness of the bipolarish baggage.

Shortly before moving south and wondering why life was hard, I interviewed hundreds of people about life in their tumultuous twenties, assuming everyone sort of went through this. This led to compiling the stories and getting them published and sharing with friends. I learned that support systems are critical, but also easy to burn out.

Blessed by the stability of the mid-latitudes, I could now afford to mature, taking jobs with writing responsibilities and landing in journalism. My body and soul had fully migrated south, where the summer and winter have nearly indistinguishable arcs of light and the flights from reality simply no longer departed.

It’s been a privilege to function again in the world and support my family, feeling like a valued member who contributes to the household, from doing the dishes and tidying up, to finding and sustaining interesting work, to being a roadie for my son’s rock band.

I still have a measure of survivor’s guilt—there are so many others with even a mild bipolar condition that aren’t helped by meds. Or they can’t find a good doctor or they’re not willing to talk to a therapist or doctor even if they do. To them, I dedicate this essay, and urge them to take refuge in this thought: a lot of people care a lot about you.

It can be better here near the equator—warmer and with more of life in balance, where the flights from reality are few and far between. The warmth of the sun and the regular rotation of the seasons is simply too much for the ice and the darkness.

 

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