Moving
to Oregon: A bipolar journey
On
my third day in Oregon, I leave my motel room, get breakfast at a
diner, and call home. My mom says that she made sure that my doctor
forwarded all my medications from North Carolina to a CVS pharmacy
nearby. She wishes me luck and reminds me that I have an appointment
in an hour. After crossing town, I park and walk into the therapist's
office nestled behind a big fern across the hall from a dermatologist
office, shuffle some insurance papers around and have a seat. It's
raining outside, and I take a deep breath to prepare me for this next
big step in my life. A spectacled lady with short,
professionally-gelled hair and a relaxed smile comes out and
introduces herself as. Dr. Chandler. We walk back to the cozy,
pillow-strewn therapy room complete with cinnamon aroma candles, and
she says, "Well, I would like to start out today by you telling me
a little bit about what's going on. Tell me as much as you feel
comfortable with. Start with what you were feeling when you became
ill the last time and then fill in as much of your story as you can
so that we can work together on this. I'll just let you talk it out
today, and we'll start a dialogue next week. Are you ready?"
"Ready"
I say. In my mind, I had the following monologue running in my head
as it had been for a couple of weeks, "I suffer from bipolar
disorder. On that day, it was like a sparkler burning and exploding
in an orgy of red light dancing to the laughs and shouts of all those
around. The light slowly flickered out. Then, there was total
darkness until the next one is lit. This back and forth continued
until the last sparkler went out. The darkness was all consuming like
a blanket wrapped way too tightly around me on a cold winter's
night. The restraints of illness started to wrap me as started to
gasp for air. My hands were shaking, and a general sense of panic set
in. Memories flashed before my eyes, but none of them seemed to help
me find the path. Those thoughts and memories were hopelessly out of
order anyway. Somehow, the night turned to pitch black, and I
couldn't find my way back to the path. If only I had brought my
flashlight or my phone with me to help light the way. I went through
the woods, scraping my legs occasionally on the thorn bushes below
me. No one else would have understood even if I tried to explain what
was happening to me. I finally found the country house, closed the
screen door behind me, and collapsed on my bed for another night of
fitful sleep. That night was some months after the start of that
terrible, exhilarating, unbelievable summer, but my story really
began in 1977 when the weirdest kid in town came into the world."
Instead, I simply say, "Maybe I should just start from the
beginning with my story."
I
was born a dreamer in the small town of Gastonia, North Carolina. I
was the middle child of a doctor and school teacher, and everything
seemed to be idyllic in our little world. There a swing set in the
backyard and a playground within walking distance. I was absolutely
carefree as a child, and I had a wild imagination. Often, I would
turn down play dates, preferring to play by myself, and my mom didn't
think anything of it since I was thoroughly entertained. I would run
and climb trees with the greatest of ease, but around company, I was
painfully shy to the point of being almost mute. At five, I went to
the neighbor's house and back to ask for sugar without saying a
word. That's how quiet I was among grown-ups. Even so, I ran with
the neighbor kids just fine because together we would occupy an
incredible imaginary world that would take us on boat trips in my
uncle's disabled Bay Cruiser sitting in the backyard and to other
unheard of places.
.
Things started to change the summer before first grade. I needed
glasses, and I was fitted with a huge brown pair that would prove the
bane of my existence. My sheltered world was starting to crumble.
First grade started at very small private school boding ill enough,
but midway through the first semester, the teasing stared in earnest.
I made friends, and I even had a group with whom I rode bikes to
school. The school was so small and the part of town so elite that
these were to be my friends for a few years at least, and we
regularly met in front of Jones' corner store to ride bikes
together to school. However, my own friends couldn't help but give
me teasing me mercilessly, and I had little choice but to make myself
comfortable in my personal hell of childhood's cruelties. My mother
was there to catch me through all this, but at such a tender age, I
had no way to know that her battle with alcohol was making us into
emotional co-dependents for life. My sister could see my mom
drunkenly arranging mine and my brother's lunches at night, but I
wouldn't be exposed to this ugly truth until middle school when it
could hurt the most. Even so, my mom would try to play tough telling
me numerous times to stop being so sensitive, but I was too often
overcome by the feeling that I did not belong.
In
my pre-teen, brain, I thought that my appearance could change my
reality. After five full years of getting four-eyes taunts, I finally
reinvent myself by getting contacts, but this small improvement
didn't really change things. I was not excluded from things, but I
felt lost in the crowd. I felt that I was invisible to girls, I
struggled at sports, and my self-esteem suffered as a result. My
parents did their best to help me, but I was just a melancholy little
kid. They would try to reason with me, and my mom was always there to
console me when the neighborhood kids would make fun of me during
late afternoon games of four-square. I think they perpetually thought
my unhappiness was part of passing phases of my growing up To further
set me apart, I had taken up acting lessons and had gotten a part in
a local theater production. Acting was a great thrill for me, but it
further isolated me from my peers, and it really brought out my
eccentric side. Ultimately, all I really wanted was my parents'
affirmation, but their response was lukewarm at best. They were kept
very busy by my older sister's drama that saw her taken out of my
school due to bullying and into an all-girls school where the
atmosphere was equally tough. I'd want to blame my brother who was
just one grade below me at the same school as well. I think that
three kids was one too many for my parents, and it's all too easy
for us middle children to get lost in the shuffle. Through it all,
our greatest times as a family were out on the boat, fishing until
sunset and of course, drinking. The photos document that the adults
were always drinking. I would find out later that both my father's
parents were hard drinkers, partying drunks you might say. However,
my mom's father was a hardened AA veteran, and her chances of
living though a party lifestyle unscathed were very slim. My
emotional state which was so intertwined with my mother as a shy
first grader on the four square court would collide with her heavier
drinking states growing up.
Fifth
and sixth grade passed by, and I tumbled from the frying pan into the
fire. My school only went up to the eighth grade, but the elite prep
school across town was k-12. As she so often did, my mom made an
executive decision with my future and moved me to the new school so
that I would have a sure place to continue through high school. For
the first semester, I really withdrew into my shell, but I did play
football, which helped me meet people. I hadn't gotten any more
athletic, but I liked being part of the team. Still, the specter of
alcoholism was ever present. My brother moved schools in the same
year, and he had his spend-the-night party crashed by my drunk mom
just coming to check on them. He was mortified, and I too lived in
fear that everyone at school would know that my mom was a drunk, as
if that meant there was something wrong with me.
I
brought on hobby from my old school to my new school. I took guitar
lessons from Frank Rissuto downtown. I had been very quiet about this
interest, but the new school meant a new opportunity to showcase my
talent. Music became my obsession as I started to hit puberty. I
started playing the guitar, and I soon found a few guys at school
that played too. We got a garage band going. This project stretched
from the height of the Guns and Roses era in into the grunge period
with Nirvana and Pearl Jam, and we rocked out "My Michelle" and
"Smells Like Teen Spirit" for the whole neighborhood to hear.
This was fun, but my real interest was music from the sixties from
the Allman Brothers to Dylan to Cream and Hendrix. My mom had been in
the peace movement in the late sixties, and I wanted to recreate that
era in my mind in order to understand what she might have
experienced. The problem with all this was that I didn't really
have much musical talent beyond the basic chords progressions. Still,
it was fun except for regular fist fights with our drummer who
insisted on picking on me at every chance. Playing in a rock band was
something to do, but at this high school it made us the brunt of
older kids taunts more than their cheers because all the older kids
were pretty much stuck on finding their best track to Princeton Law
than dreaming of a record contract. At public school, we would have
been a hit but not so much a private school. The real emphasis was on
official extracurricular activities, the kind you can put on a
college application. So I felt pressure to play three sports a year
in middle school, whether I wanted to or not. I wasn't very good at
any of them, but my dad seemed to think that he was doing his
fatherly duty by showing up for games. We weren't close. To make
matters worse, his partnership was dissolving, and he spent way more
time at the office and especially at the hospital than he did at
home. That left my mom in charge, and she just couldn't handle it
but had decided brag constantly about my sister's amazing academic
exploits as if they were her own. I felt a lot of pressure to succeed
academically on top of sports and everything else, and something just
gave way.
Things
started to really deteriorate as I started to experiment with
drinking and pot. At parties, I would numb myself, and it shielded me
from the social interaction that I really needed. It was around that
time that I started to discover the extent of my mother's drinking
problem, and in a cruel twist of fate, I dulled the pain of this
family illness with more drinking and drugs. It was rather like
pouring gasoline on the fire and then adding some firecrackers to the
mix, but I didn't care. My dad, meanwhile, was too busy delivering
babies at all hours of the night to notice the dumpster fire that his
home life had become. My sister in her senior year was as rebellious
as ever, and shouting matches between her and my dad were the stuff
of legend around the block. These conflicts only fueled my resolve to
do whatever I wanted under the radar, thus avoiding the fights and
confrontations with my parents. Despite all this chaos, all three of
us children got great grades, and that seemed to excuse everything.
College
came sooner that I would have thought, and I continued my drunken,
overachieving ways at a small liberal arts college, Williamson
College, in South Carolina. Being a frat boy with a 4.0 seemed to be
the ideal, but it was an illusion for most. I could keep up with the
books and with the drinking, but I didn't connect with my
classmates very well. I did try to socialize, but I had a lot of
anxiety making it difficult for my social skills to improve much.
However, I did make some good friends in my fraternity, and I had
hoped that these friends would help me on down the road. I felt lost
through four years including a stint studying abroad and backpacking
through Europe. I really thought that my studies were my ticket to a
great career and life. I was really driven by a genuine intellectual
curiosity, but it was a fear of failure that drove me as I pushed
on through to graduate school with my diploma in hand but all sorts
of problems unresolved. Something had to give, but I couldn't see
it at the time. Midway through graduate school, it all hit the fan
in slow motion.
I
was a twenty-four year old graduate student just finishing up a
year-long paid internship in Stockholm. The winter was rough on me,
but generous quantities of vodka at parties helped me endure. Much to
my family's surprise, I took up cross country skiing so that the
grey winter didn't overpower me. Still, I wasn't much of an
athlete, but I tried my best to keep up membership in a university
ski club. We enjoyed a weekly ski every Sunday exploring the rolling
countryside. On one occasion, I even joined the group for an
afternoon at the sauna. I reluctantly agreed to broiling in the sauna
followed by a mad dash to immerse myself in the snow. Then we ran
back to the sauna to warm up. That thrill was unmatched in his whole
stay in that beautiful, frozen country
Carl,
my best friend in college, and I had been planning this train trip
across Europe for three years now. Since the fall of the Berlin Wall,
the whole map of Europe was open to exploring, and we wanted to take
in as much of it as we could. I met Carl in Amsterdam, and we spent
two days having a look around there, not forgetting to take the
Heineken factory tour. On our first train journey, we set off at
night towards Berlin. I wanted to take in the museums, but Carl
naturally preferred the beer gardens. I won out, telling Carl that
there would be plenty of time for beer gardens once we got to Munich.
We both really enjoyed the Berlin Wall museum, which chronicled the
many escape attempts East Berliners tried over the years to escape to
West Berlin and freedom. After a fine three-day stint in Munich.
Prague was the next destination on the trip. Prague was definitely my
favorite place I'd seen so far. I loved the old town with its huge
clock overlooking the square. I also marveled at its amazing bridges.
On the tour of the castle and the surrounding area, we saw the odd
little house where Kafka once lived. Carl, an English major in
college, informed the crowd that this area was the setting for
Kafka's novel, The
Castle.
The
pace slowed some as we pulled into Budapest and set off to enjoy the
view from the old city, Buda, down to Pest where the magnificent
white washed walls of the Parliament building could be seen across
the Danube River. The remarkable thing about Budapest was that the
local people paid no notice of us being "rude" Americans. The
locals could have cared less, and it was frankly a relief after
meeting more Americans than locals in the last cities we visited. We
stayed almost a week, and we even took a side trip north to take in a
local wine festival. The Europe trip concluded with a long
train trip to Nice for a few days on the beach. Then, we hit Paris
and caught all the high spots. Lastly, we headed back to Amsterdam
for two days before flying back to the States. This trip sure was a
whirlwind tour of Europe, but it was worth every penny. We went
our separate ways in New York promising to stay in touch via Skype
and to share our photos on Facebook.
After
arriving back home safely in Gastonia, I started to realize that I
hadn't really stopped my breakneck speed since arriving in
Stockholm almost a year ago. I felt reinvigorated. Since I had six
weeks until school started back in Georgia, I looked for things to
keep myself busy. My parent's house was very quiet since they
had left for a year-long sabbatical in Australia. In my quest to keep
busy, I rode his bike twice daily, volunteered at a soup kitchen, and
read as many novels as I could get my hands on. I even started toying
with ideas for my thesis, which wasn't due until next spring. In my
remaining free time, I cleaned the house three times over, and I read
the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Charlotte
Observer almost daily. I took particular delight in phoning friends
from graduate school to regale them with stories of my trip. To put
it bluntly, I was in overdrive.
The
one speed bump to the end of my summer came when I met my sister and
her family for a week at at the Carolinian Mountain Resort. We didn't
call it a resort. It was more like a family camp really. My sister
and her friend from high school had brought their whole families up
for the week. They all marveled at just how active I was. I was
riding my bike that I hadn't touched last summer. I was going on
hikes before breakfast and was fully participating in all the
activities. The old me would have remained on the porch, quietly
reading books for most of the week. They also couldn't get over how
thin I was. They started calling me "the new Jim." There, my
sister invited me to Brevard for the next weekend. She said that it
must lonely all by myself in that big house.
Before
heading for Brevard, I drove back to Gastonia to pick up the mail and
to check in on things there. As I was about to head out the door, I
noticed the voicemail light blinking on the home phone. There was a
woman's voice on the tape that I didn't recognize. It seemed that
the call was from the university, and they said that it was urgent. I
immediately called the university to find out what was so
pressing, and my call was forwarded to the financial aid department.
While on hold, my thoughts raced to figure out what the financial aid
office wanted. When a lady finally picked up, she said that due to
recent budget cuts, my grant had been eliminated. She said that she
was sorry, but I needed to pay all the tuition costs for the coming
semester by next Tuesday. I dropped the phone and stood in shock for
a moment. Then, I went into panic mode. I called my sister in Brevard
to ask for her advice, but she said that I'm speaking so fast that
she couldn't understand me. I struggled to tell her that I would
see her in Brevard in a few hours. I checked the clock and figured
out that it was impossible to call Australia at that hour. So, I left
for Brevard with a million thoughts running through my head. How
would I get the money so quickly? What if Mom and Dad couldn't
afford to help me out? Was there a way to stall for time with the
bursar's office? These were all reasonable questions. Instead of
thinking through them rationally, my mind swirled like a tornado
tossing each new thought into the melee in my head.
I
started off to Brevard in my powder blue Volkswagen station wagon. My
mind continued to race from one thought to another, but this battle
somehow did not affect my driving. Even so, I surprisingly failed to
turn on the air conditioning and didn't once turn on the radio. By
the time I reached my sister's house, I was covered in sweat, and I
felt like I could have thrown up at any moment. A long car ride
usually helped calm me down. However, my nerves were frayed by the
thought of not being able to finish my studies. My whole life plan
hinged on getting my degree, and I could feel the chance slipping
away.
I
waited outside my sister's house for fifteen minutes and left two
voice mails on her phone. I felt too agitated to wait any longer, so
I took my bike off the car rack and went for a ride. The immediate
neighborhood was familiar to me, but I got lost after I unwittingly
crossed a major intersection and went into another neighborhood
entirely. I tried to backtrack, but I only got more lost. I finally
went into to a store where they kindly let me use the phone. Thank
God my brother-in-law was home, and after a puzzling conversation, he
agreed to meet me at a local supermarket. I sat down on the
curb outside the supermarket, and my brother-in-law, Todd, arrived in
his trusty old Suburban. We threw the bicycle in the back and headed
back to their house. I felt so embarrassed that I didn't say a word
until we pulled in the driveway.
As I
stepped out the car, I was bombarded by my sister screaming, "What
the hell do you think you're doing?" I stared blankly ahead and
rushed past her and up the stairs into the safety of the upstairs
bathroom. Ever since having her first child, my sister's fuse had
become very short. I was already afraid of what she might say next. I
dried my eyes and proceeded slowly down the stairs. Instead of being
mad, she was perfectly calm. She just pleaded with me to tell her
what was wrong. I responded that it was nothing to worry about. She
pressed me again for information, and I responded by collapsing in
the nearest chair and crying.
I
explained my situation through intermittent sobbing, and she assured
me that everything could be worked out. I replied that if only I
hadn't taken that trip, then everything would have been worked out
by the time the new semester rolled around. I was insistent that all
the blame lie on me for this mixed-up situation. I pushed myself up
from the lounge chair and started mumbling incoherently about all the
stuff that I had done to ruin in my life. I was convinced that all I
did now would just work out for the worst. My sister tried to console
me, but she couldn't stop me from pacing long enough to make me
listen. I collapsed in the chair and started sobbing again. My sister
went into the next room to call her friend who was a nurse, and
luckily she was at home. She told my sister to take me to the
hospital where they would probably just give me some medicine to calm
my nerves. There was an eerie quiet in the car, and I realized that
my whole body was shaking after a few minutes in the car. I saw my
sister's sense of concern on her face, so I shut my eyes to make to
ride go easier. On the second half of the ride, she talked to me real
calmly, assuring me that the doctors at the hospital could help me
and that I didn't have to go if I didn't want to. She made the
experience sound almost nice, but when we got to the hospital, it was
a different story.
Before
we got out of the car, I came out of my dream-like state and realized
where I was. I begged to go back to the house. I said that everything
would be just fine if I just got some sleep. In Gastonia, I had been
getting about four hours of sleep per night. We got there at six, but
we had to wait for fifteen minutes for our turn. I could feel the
clock ticking in my head, and the wait seemed interminable. I started
shaking again as I thought about the possibility that they might ship
me somewhere where I couldn't escape. The nurses interviewed my
sister first, and then they called me back to the consultation room.
I tried to play it cool, but my rapid speech and shaking hands gave
me away. Apparently, my sister had successfully convinced the nurses
to consider admitting into inpatient care, which meant that I would
likely be there are a while. I wasn't really with it enough to
protest coherently and thus began my first experience with the mental
health system. The orderly took my belt and all my personal effects
for safe keeping. My sister filled out some more paperwork, and I sat
down in the wheelchair as directed. My sister kissed my cheek and
waved goodbye promising to be back tomorrow to visit. The orderly
turned the key to open the big metal door, and I glanced behind me as
the door slammed shut, maybe forever.
My
vision got fuzzy as I looked up to the ceiling where the off-white
incandescent bulbs seemed to burn my retinas. I was wheeled to my
Spartan room with two metal bedframes and twin nightstands where I
was told to change into hospital clothes. So, that was it- I was
officially in prison, and when the jailer shut my door, I felt like
it was a cell door slamming shut, and the off-white color of the
walls must have matched my face at that moment. I felt sick. I could
see by some shirts on the bureau that I had a roommate, and this
revelation makes me more nervous.
I
then walked down the hall to find the TV on the Golf Channel which
served as background noise for all the thinking I had to do. The rec
room had dirty dark red carpet, and there were two younger ladies and
an older gentleman sitting in wicker chairs seeming to follow the
action on the screen, I just kept on thinking, My rumination was soon
interrupted by the announcement of dinner, and I went through the
buffet line. I sat at an empty table and looked down at the
unappetizing mix of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and some
unidentifiable mix of greens. The meal wasn't bad, but I barely
touched my plate. I was still angry at my sister for flinging me into
this place. I went down the hall to my room to lay down for a bit. I
got up when someone knocked on my door and told me that we had a
chance to go outside into the courtyard. Most of the other patients
were smoking, so I kept my distance. I couldn't wait to meet some
of my fellow inmates tomorrow. After outside time, a line formed to
parcel out our meds, and I had no choice but to take them. Now, I was
remembering that there had been a doctor in the room earlier, but I
couldn't remember his name. That's who instructed me to take this
awful pills that made my head feel like a corkscrew was going through
it. I crawled into bed and fell asleep long before my roommate slid
into his own bed. The lights in the hall never went out, and I wasn't
allowed to close the door, but I slept some anyway.
I
felt groggy the next morning at breakfast. My roommate who was a
black-haired, rough-skinned man in his late forties, slid into a seat
across from me. He said with a smile that I must have considered
myself lucky that I wasn't scalped the night before. I found the
comment strange and alarming, but he explained that it was a joke. He
was half Native-American. Next, there was an hour-long information
session where I got to meet some of my fellow patients. First, there
was Carla, who claimed that her family put her there to keep her
quiet about some drug running scheme they were hatching. There was a
big woman named Yolanda who wound up in there every time she missed
taking her medication for more than a day. When it was my turn, I
said emphatically that I should be at the university by now instead
of sitting in this hellhole. "Activities" such as group exercises
on goal setting and meditation practice continued throughout the day,
and it seemed that the only thing we couldn't do was leave or lie
in our beds all day.
My
sister and her husband came to visit at four, and she watched Todd
and I play a few games of ping pong. My sister surely sensed how
bitter and upset I was with her, so she stayed silent for most of the
visit. They asked if there was anything that they could bring for me.
I just wanted her to bring the Book of Common Prayer. It is said that
inmates often find God in their new environment, and I wanted to give
it a try. I didn't want to cause a scene between myself and my
older sister because I wanted to get out as soon as possible. Before
dinner, I met with the doctor. He reintroduced himself as Dr.
Johnson, and I nodded politely. He asked me a series of questions
about what happening in the world, what I did that day and how I was
feeling on the new medication. Finally, I just got up the courage to
ask what's wrong with me. He said that the preliminary diagnosis
was schizophrenia or maybe bipolar disorder. Neither sounded good,
and I wanted to escape this awful place as soon as humanly possible.
The
next day trickled by. The only good news I got was that my roommate
was leaving, so I would have the room all to myself. The family visit
was even more bitter and silent than the past one. They did bring the
prayer book, but the nurses wouldn't allow me to keep it because it
had a string for a place marker that could have been used to hang a
rat I supposed. After our visit, I started planning my getaway. I
succeeded in duping the nurse by not taking my pills that night or
the next morning.
Five
in the afternoon was the time the time I had set for my escape. It
seemed like the prefect time between the hospital's and my sister's
schedules to minimize the chance of something getting in my way.
Truth was that I could have left whenever, but my mind had fixed
itself on a very specific plan, and I was going to stick to it.
During the doctor's daily rounds, he recommended that I stayed four
more days at least. So, I would leave against doctor's orders, but
I didn't care. My sister would arrive in a few hours for visiting
hours and find me gone, but the thought of her reaction didn't stop
me. I had to get to where I could sort things out on my own. At
exactly 5 pm, I signed a few forms, collected my belongings and sat
down to check what was in the bag. I retrieved my wallet and heard my
keys jingling at the bottom of the bag. It was a miracle that my
sister hadn't taken my keys. Now, freedom was only a taxi ride
away. Off I went with a fifty in my pocket for the cab ride.
I
nearly tumbled out of the car when we reached my sister's house,
and in another thirty seconds I sped out of the neighborhood.
Luckily, no one ran outside to stop me. I hit every green light out
of Brevard. At one point, I topped ninety as the speed rush coursed
through my veins. That terrible place hadn't sucked all the life
out of me after all. I made Gastonia in record time, and the first
thing I did when I got home was raid my parent's liquor cabinet The
next thing I did was kick my feet up and watch Sports Center on the
big-screen TV.. After about five cocktails, I started to feel woozy.
I also felt a little bit guilty about what I had done. So, I texted
my sister, "Sorry. Thanks for trying to help me, but I just had to
get out." One drink later, I passed out on the couch.
I
woke up at eleven that morning, and I realized that I couldn't stay
at my parent's house because my sister would know where to find me.
I also figured that drinking every night by myself would get old
fast. So, I called one my wildest college buddies to see if I could
crash for a few nights at his place. Unlike most of my college
friends, Tim didn't want a real job. He tended bar in downtown
Charlotte and partied after hours at least three nights a week. By a
stroke of luck, I caught him just before he went to work, and he said
that he was happy to have me stay. I screened my calls all day until
it was time to leave for Charlotte. In a rare moment of clarity, I
parked my car outside Tim's apartment and walked to the LYNX
station. I arrived at the bar around 9:30, and Tim greeted me with a
bear hug. He bought me a beer and a few shots, and since it was a
slow night, his boss lets him go just before midnight. Tim insisted
that we hit a club or two before heading home. The strobe lights and
pulsating music made me feel like I was hallucinating, so I excused
myself to go outside and get some air. After chilling out for fifteen
minutes, Tim came outside to check on me. Tim asked me how it was
going and got a muffled "not so great" in response, so he drove
us back to his apartment. I rallied, and we stayed up until three in
the morning drinking beers and reminiscing about college life.
Since
Tim didn't have to work the next night, he planned on having a
little party. His two roommates were still in college at UNC
Charlotte, so the party promised to be a lot of fun. While Tim got
ready for the party, I took LYNX downtown. I checked out two museums,
and I had a nice late lunch at a cafin the heart of the financial
district. The towering skyscrapers made me feel pretty small hungover
in the big city, but I did find a nice little park to sit for while
away from the late afternoon bustle. I was grateful for this escape
from my troubles, but I couldn't help but feel a little depressed
wandering the streets of the Queen City all alone. I got back to the
apartment just as the pizzas were being delivered, and I inhaled two
or three slices right then, knowing that I would need something in my
stomach for later. Probably forty or fifty people showed up, and I
downed a beer and realized that I was not sleeping that night. When I
told people that I was in grad school, they seemed impressed.
However, I knew that it was a lie. Now, I was a bum living in my
parents' empty house. I stayed by Tim for most of the night, and I
genuinely enjoyed meeting so many bright-eyed college students. At
three-thirty in the morning, I brushed several beer cans off the
couch and crashed on the make-shift bed. I was still sleeping at
eleven when Tim woke me. I leapt out of bed and wondered where I was.
All I wanted right then was a nice warm bed. After changing into some
clean clothes, I thanked Tim for the hospitality but said I must get
back home to Gastonia. Tim tried to persuade me to stay one more
night but to no avail.
As
I headed toward Gastonia, my mind started racing again. I wondered
what my sister might have done in my absence. What if there were
people out looking for me? What if my sister called Mom to come back
from Australia to take care of me? These questions were simply too
much for me to handle right then, so I cranked up the radio and
enjoyed the ride. Once I got home, I slept for twenty-four hours
straight, only getting up to fix some cereal and to go back to bed.
Like a dark cloak over me, depression set in.
I
couldn't count the ways my life had potentially changed in the past
week from grad student to mental patient. I just wanted to wind back
the clock to before I got sick. After sleeping so long, at about two
in the afternoon, I roses from the bed, pulled back the curtains and
felt the sun coming in through the window. After a little rifling
through my closet, I found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that fit me.
I felt a little dizzy after a full night and day of hibernation. I
went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. Then, I took
a nice long, hot shower, and I felt refreshed. However, the shower
didn't stop my mind from racing. So, I concentrated on fixing
myself a nice, hot meal. There were still frozen chicken breasts and
vegetables in the freezer. I just concentrated on one thing at a time
like they told me to do at the hospital.
As
I washed the dishes, the phone rang from across the room. I ran over
and saw that it was my sister calling. I had a clear choice to make:
to either pick up the phone and go along with whatever my sister had
decided for me or to let the machine pick it up and keep going on my
own. I picked up the phone. My sister said that she had talked to
Mom, and they had decided what to do. All I got to say was "uh-huh"
to everything she said. A few hours later, I heard a car honk
outside, grabbed my bag and got in my sister's car. We were headed
on the seven-thirty flight to Baltimore.
I
barely noticed my surroundings until we were about to land. My sister
unbuckled my seatbelt for me and led me to the exit. I only had one
small suitcase, not nearly enough for my stay, but she said that she
would mail me some more. We caught a cab outside the airport, and we
sped into downtown Baltimore. We could have been anywhere as far as I
was concerned. Getting out at our destination, I looked up a towering
building, and we went inside. I sat for two hours idly as my sister
met with the intake officers of the hospital. The place was not on
our insurance, so my parents were having to agree to pay a portion of
their retirement savings so that I could be treated at such a
world-class facility. Later, they would say that I was worth it, but
I sometimes wonder if a potential villa in Hawaii would have
convinced them to have spent their money differently. Once the papers
were signed, I had to go upstairs. That's when the anxiety kicked
back in. I said goodbye to my sister once again, but she promised to
fly in for a visit in three weeks. When every hour produced a
different reality for me, three weeks seemed like a lifetime.
And
it was. Life in the hospital was a world unto itself. Gone were the
scary dayroom and suicide checks. The rooms were spacious, the food
was good, and the doctors were top notch. I had my own personal nurse
that met with me for an hour every day! She had gone to Yale! I knew
I was in good hands. I was no longer afraid, but I was still
confused. Panic about the future dominated my waking hours, and I
began to think back to my undergrad days in History class and hatch
conspiracy theories out of thin air. It wasn't bad enough that my
scholarship was gone, but the world was collapsing in on itself as
well. I would later learn that this was what is referred to as
dissociation. The doctors adjusted my meds almost daily, but I didn't
really know the difference. I do remember that a team of three would
come into the room every morning to talk to me, take notes on their
clipboards and look pensively at me and at each other..
Mealtime
was the real chance to talk on a personal level with fellow patients.
Notice I say patients instead of prisoners because human dignity was
really valued in such an expensive facility. I sat with the same
group every day, but different types of patients had different
assigned eating areas. For example, the eating disorder patients were
only allowed to sit with each other, I guess because they had dietary
restrictions. It was at lunch one day that I befriended Greg who had
freaked out after watching the coverage of Hurricane Katrina for four
straight days and wound up in the hospital. Yup, that would do it.
More structured conversations were had in group twice a day, and we
would lay out a future world for ourselves that we all knew was never
going to happen. However, the counselor made everyone feel good for a
while. We went downstairs to the gym to play basketball for an hour
every day. This was fun, but I didn't exactly have enough energy to
play a full court game or anything. Still, I missed seeing my family.
My sister was in North Carolina, and my parents were overseas. The
countdown to my sister's visit began. Two days before the visit, I
spent three hours in the rec room making the perfect card for my
nephew, Stephen, who was coming with my sister to see me. My nephew
was only two, and his photos brightened up many nights studying for
me in grad school.
Finally
the day arrived, and I lit up. My sister came though those doors with
my nephew by her side, and I hugged her tight. She met with the
doctors for a few minutes and then signed me out at the front desk. I
was allowed to go out under her supervision into Baltimore for five
hours. We caught a cab to the harbor area. The Baltimore area had
really been cleaned up in the past few years, and it sported nice
views and a restaurant and shopping area that was really quite
appealing. Mainly, I wanted seafood. We got a table, and once we got
my nephew settled, I decided on the shrimp and crab special. You
can't go to Baltimore without trying the crabs, and they weren't
serving any in the hospital. I was nervous about the time, but my
sister told me to relax and enjoy my food. After the meal, we
wandered down where there was a dock overlooking the harbor. My
sister convinced me to go with my nephew on a paddle boat ride. Only
the paddle boat was in the shape of a purple and green dinosaur. As
medicated as I was I at the time, I will never forget it. Even so,
the visit was bittersweet.
My
sister and nephew left that afternoon, and I still had three weeks
left. Things did get better, and I gradually I was allowed more
freedom. I remember that they would take us for walks around the part
of downtown Baltimore near the hospital. I recall wondering what
those old brownstone buildings must have witnessed over the years. As
nice as Baltimore was, I wanted to go home. The doctor visits got
less frequent toward the end, but I had to fill out a lot of
paperwork and some surveys for a study that the university was
conducting. On the second to last day, it came: my diagnosis. Bipolar
(not schizophrenia as the county hospital had suggested). I would
hold onto this word like an identity badge for some time to come, but
ultimately, it's just code in a file along my journey through life.
Those life lessons would come much later. Now, I had to fly home with
my sister and face the immediate future.
My
sister came to pick me up, and this time, I was crying tears of joy.
The road back wasn't easy, but it was better than the alternative.
There were ups and downs but not like before. On the plane ride back,
I asked to sit in the window seat so that I could see down from the
heavens to the green grass and the occasional Target with its red
bull's-eye painted on the roof. My parents got back from Australia
in time for the holidays, and I got set up in a studio apartment
across town with intentions of finding employment soon. Following
doctor's orders from here on, my life slowly got better. I landed a
nine-to-five job. It was entry level, but I couldn't be too picky
at this stage. A month later, I struggled through a crippling
eight-day period of depression that nearly got me fired. Trying to
cheer me up, my sister invited me along for a weekend at the country
house. My depression followed me there, but being around family
helped a little. I inched ahead by constantly finding things that I
enjoyed and by concentrating on them to help me through the weeks and
months ahead. The big finale of my next summer was my nephew and
godson's third birthday party. I circled the day in my calendar,
and I busied myself with finding the perfect gift. The day finally
arrived, and I pulled up to my sister's house in that same powder
blue station wagon. I set my present down on the table, and my nephew
ran up to give me a big hug. The look on my nephew's face as they
cut the cake was and would stay crystal clear in my memory like a
talisman to ward off all the evil in the world. However, as with any
lifelong illness, the struggle wasn't over.
Two
months later, I felt really good, and the weather was beautiful. I
had more energy than I ever had before. I decided to go the country
house by myself this time just to get away. I was running through the
woods. Memories of childhood bullies kept running through my mind. I
couldn't make it stop. Then, blacked out scenes from parties
started popping in my head. I remembered that legal pad with my plan
for college written out on it, and I collapsed. Nothing made sense
anymore, and I felt like I was doomed. I was sick again. I didn't
wind up in the hospital this time. My parents had come home by then,
and I was able to stay with them until I could decide what to do. The
decision was made that I had to get out of North Carolina. There
simply weren't enough resources there to adequately deal with my
situation. All my options were dead ends, and I needed something
innovative and new to help me escape my demons and to face life with
a renewed vigor that simply wasn't possible in my current
surroundings. Heading west, I felt lost, hopeful and afraid."
The
therapist interrupts. "That's all we have time for today. Let's
start back there next week" she says. "Thanks for sharing." I
feel a cathartic wave come over me as I get up from the couch. I walk
slowly out the office to my car, get in my car and drive to my motel.
Luckily, it's my last night. I didn't drive all the way to Oregon
to this particular therapist. I have come for a farm wellness program
designed to prepare me to re-enter regular life with skills that
their staff are trained to provide. The farm is said to provide a
great atmosphere for this healing to occur. I move to the farm hostel
tomorrow, and I can't wait. The job sounds great, and I am so
thankful for everyone who made this move happen. As of tomorrow, I
will working on a farm run by a non-profit. I will be getting the
help I need to sort out all my childhood issues. The stress that so
plagued me before will replaced by the clean rhythm of farm life, and
I will be surrounded by friends in similar situations. This will be
my new family. I will always remember my family back home in North
Carolina, my college friends and all the experiences that defined my
former life. However, the call of the wide open fields, the river
nearby, and the 6 am wake-up bell will compel me to move on the best
I can to fulfill what God put me on this earth to do: seek peace and
harmony in the company of others while working to build a better
tomorrow for all. My old demons will always haunt me, but the rush of
the river will help wash them away.
I
pull through the gates on the outskirts of town the next morning. My
car is full of stuff for the trip, but I would only really need a
fraction of it for my stay. The brochure says that the conditions
would be Spartan, and as Cathy, the center's receptionist, points
out on our little tour, the rooms have twin bunk beds. The dining
area and rec room are nice though, and as an added bonus there's no
TV. There's an election coming up soon, and the last thing I want
to worry about is who the next leader of the free world will be. I
set my stuff down in room number three, at which point, I am set free
to roam about the grounds and get to know the place. I walk over a
bridge overlooking a lake and a big green field with a herd of cows
in the distance. To the left, there were several barns, and I could
see several residents hurrying around doing various morning chores. I
almost make it to the frontage road when I hear a voice calling me
back. It is time for my very first co-op meeting.
I
expect a hippie commune-type feel, but the leader, Phil, is quite
businesslike. There
are
fourteen of us in all, seven men and seven women. Apparently that
number would fluctuate
periodically.
I am introduced first as I grin sheepishly in front of the group. The
rest call out their names, but my mind couldn't keep it all in. I
wonder almost aloud what all their stories must be, but I am stopped
short by the slide show demonstrating the new milking machine. This
is really happening. Never in my life did I see myself as a farmer,
but here I am in this little slice of paradise tucked into rural
Oregon.
I
am spared 5:30 milking duty the next morning, but just after
breakfast, I am sent to feed the chicken with Max from Atlanta. He
was in the bunk across from me the previous night, but we didn't
get a chance to talk. He had been a meat manager at a supermarket
before bipolar illness and alcoholism had sent his life careening off
a cliff. He has more tattoos than anyone I've seen to date,
including one of a female body part on his shaved head. I certainly
wouldn't have met this guy in a grad school class, but he was very
nice and committed to the program. I could see that it wouldn't be
too long before he would be back in Atlanta showing that town how
it's done. Routine
is the mainstay of farm life, but without regular breaks, we would
lose it. So, we organized games of kickball in the field, and with
each passing afternoon, my stamina grows. We also are absolutely
fanatical about our food. Farm fresh, obviously, and everyone plays a
role in ensuring the highest level of nutrition. Poor diet and poor
mental health are strongly correlated, so this holistic
approach
to health for both mind and body is essential to our collective
wellbeing. Going back out into
the
world without all the essential lifeskills is considered pointless,
and our leader stresses that the
process
starts with what we put in our bodies. After ten days, I start to
feel rejuvenated in a good way,
and
it's time to head back in town for my second therapy session.
Dr.
Carson greets me cordially, and I have a seat. She said that I seemed
a little stressed, so that maybe we should start with a five-minute
meditation. My voice still a little shaky, I start, "So where do
you want us to start?"
She
replies, "Well, we will get to some underlying issues later, but
I'd like to start with you telling me about your sources of
strength. It seems that your sister plays a big role in your life.
Why don't you tell me about her?"
"Sure,"
I say. "She has always been my idol, my protector. She always had
the most thoughtful gifts for me growing up. A faux leather jacket
like the one Tom Cruise wore in "Top Gun" and a cassette player
that ate up every new tape she collected. I followed behind her in
every successive musical obsession from the Beach Boys to the Beatles
on up to REM. At times, I looked up to her too much. She smoked and
drank at an early age, so naturally, I thought it was cool. My sister
was my listening ear for all my future plans, only I sensed later
that she wasn't really listening and wasn't really qualified to
good advice anyway. Still, I adored her, but I also feared her. She
got a 1450 on the SATs and got into every college she could have
wanted to go to. She was a tough act to follow, and I didn't feel
up to it. Still, my parents expected excellence from their children,
and I had to buckle down and get with the program."
The
therapist says, "You talked a lot about your sister in the first
session. What was her role in your initial recovery?"
"She
was patient. I don't think that she knew what was really going on,
but she was my advocate in any case. I described the visitation at
the county hospital as pretty antagonistic, but I failed to mention
what she brought without me asking. She brought me a beloved
children's book like a subtle reminder to keep things simple. The
in-house therapist said that my sister was pretty saavy. When I got
back from Baltimore, she hired a local girl to be my personal
attendant. We did chores by an Excel spreadsheet even took trips to
the local library and the park. I was pretty irritable and hard to
live with, but she grinned and bore it. I am not sure what it did to
her husband, but he seemed to take it in stride. She always had a
place for me at her home, and I was glad to be included. Her kids
felt like my kids really, since with my life nearly wrecked, I wasn't
really planning on having any of my own. I guess you would say that
because I am the middle child, I hold onto my nuclear family a little
too tightly. My sister sends me daily emails here even though she's
pregnant again and busy running her own business. Looking up at her,
life always seemed so easy, but I didn't know how much she really
had to struggle in her own life too. I guess I idealize my family in
my mind.
The
therapist says, "That is very common for a person in your
situation. But here, we're going to be working on you dealing with
your present reality. I don't want you to forget about your family
inasmuch as they give you strength, but your life on the farm has to
be simplified and purposeful. Do you understand?"
"Yes,"
I say with a tear in my eye. "I guess I just miss them is all. The
therapist hand me a tissue. "Of course you do," she says.
"However, I want you to focus on the present moment, and just try
to get through each day here moving one step forward. Let's try
another meditation, and I want you to envision your ideal life on the
farm."
The
music starts playing, and I drift off a bit. I picture a 6 am dip in
the lake waking totally refreshed and ready for breakfast. I parcel
out the food for others before grabbing my own plate, and we eat
quickly as there is work to be done. We have to chase a chicken to
take it back to the egg laying area. There's laughter all around.
Work continues unabated throughout the day, and we have time for our
daily game of volleyball. After dinner, we sit around a fire, while
someone strums a guitar, and we soon drift away back to our beds for
peaceful sleep. I can't remember the last peaceful night's sleep
I got in North Carolina.
Coming
back to consciousness, I tell the therapist what I had envisioned.
She
says, "That's great. I think we've made a lot of progress here
today. Just remember to put your best foot forward on the farm, and I
am sure things will continue to get better for you. See you next
week."
I
pull into the driveway feeling the cool air on my arm through the
open window. Scanning the open field, I see a girl beside the well
crying. I park quickly and walk over to see what's the matter. I
ask what's wrong, and she looks up and says, "I'm finished."
"Surely,
that can't be true. You're young. You'll be okay." Her name's
Emily, and she's 20, but she didn't look a day over seventeen.
She
says, "You don't understand. My family has given up on me, and if
I don't make it out of this place in one piece, I may never see
them again. Then again, that may be better because my dad doesn't
believe that there's anything wrong anyway."
I
reply empathetically, "I am sure he's just concerned about you,
even if he might not really understand what's going on."
She
goes on, "You see, I was in college, and everything was fun and I
was having a good time. Then, second semester came along, and the
classes got really hard, and I tried to buckle down and get good
grades, but no amount of concentrating would give me results I had
gotten in high school. I caved in and started to party and stay up
until all hours Monday through Thursday writing paper after paper.
Finals came around, and I lost it."
"What
happened?" I say.
"My
roommate came in while I was studying and listening to music and
threw a fit that my clothes were all over the floor. I snapped and
threw a shoe at her. She lunged at me and missed as I went rushing
out the door, and I slept on the grounds outside the quad that night.
There was a drum circle going nearby, so I wasn't totally alone
with my rage and fear for the coming exam at 8 am. It was safe to
assume that I would flunk the exam, and I made a D. My roommate had
reported me to the administration, and I had to go to counseling or
be kicked out of school."
"What
happened then?" I say.
"Well,
my dad made me stay for summer school because he didn't want to see
me at home and because I had to make up my one failed course.
Counseling continued that summer, but the guy was a total boring
jerk. I was hungover during most of the sessions anyway. Fall
semester came around, and they made me go see a doctor. They claimed
I had bipolar disorder. I was allowed to take a reduced class load,
but my dad threatened to cut me off. My mom tried to intervene, but
it was only by a court order that my dad continued to support me. He
didn't believe that mental illness was real, at least not for me.
The pressure got too much, and I started sleeping around. I didn't
take the medicine for a month and got drunk most nights, but I could
still do okay in the two classes I was taking. It was only after
getting busted by the cops for public drunkenness in the alley beside
a bar downtown that my dad got serious, sobered me up, then sent me
here."
"After
all that, I'd say you're pretty lucky to be in a safe place like
this, and rest assured that everybody here knows exactly where you're
coming from." I say.
She
replies holding back a sob, "I just feel like my future's
ruined."
I
reply, "No, you're just changing course. I'm sure good things
will happen for you if you let them."
Suddenly,
my problems didn't seem so huge. I patted her on the shoulders and
said. "Come on. I'll make us some green tea, and we can join the
others for dinner prep."
She
says, "Tea sounds nice. Let's go."
I
have dish washing duty tonight, so I am stinky and sweaty as I sneak
into the back of the rec room for the evening movie. The movie is
educational this time. The two previous nights, they had shown cheesy
Hollywood movies. I had skipped those to write emails back east and
to do work in my diary. I am sure that the documentary / educational
film will be boring and that I will get more writing done real soon.
But the director says that we aren't allowed to leave, and my face
starts to contort into a growl as the movie starts. The film is
called "The New Normal", and it starts in with some catchy music
and some really cool cityscapes. It continues with a series of
interviews from real people who have successfully adjusted to life
after their diagnosis. It all starts with an honest self-assessment
followed by the process of finding your place in society. Most of
them were doing very different things from when they got the
diagnosis, but they seemed happy. Diet, exercise and effective
scheduling were also stressed. All the things that we do every day on
the farm but seem so hard in the real world. After twenty-five
minutes of the film lecturing me, a woman came on the screen that
crystalized the message. She said that every moment awake will
constitute your battle against mental illness, but every moment will
be worth it, as she held up a picture of her two kids. So, there
really is a new normal, even if I have no idea what it is yet. I fall
asleep that night with an image of that woman's kids in my mind
while wondering what my sister's kids are up to. Mercifully, I
sleep soundly through the night.
Just
before dawn, six of us gather by the lake for mediation practice.
Breathing in and out the mist by the lake alleviates the pressure and
worry that would accompany future planning meetings with the
counselor that afternoon. Our breathing just about synchs up when we
hear the breakfast bell ring. There's no manic rush to our morning
routine. We challenged to enjoy every bite of our omelets and fruit.
I smile throughout the meal for the first time in living memory.
Jokes are exchanged with the passing of the bread, and an encouraging
pat is given to a new girl still feeling down. It's together that
we can cope, so that in the not too distant future our new found
strength will carry with us to wherever we land.
My
sense of tranquility is interrupted though when I go back to my room
to find that my journal is missing and my CDs are spread out all over
the other bed. My first instinct is to start cursing and panic.
I
try not to yell, but George, one of the counselors, hears me anyway.
He says, "Calm down. We can work through this."
I
breathe heavily and say, "Why can't these guys just leave my
stuff alone?"
"I'll
get him back here to clean this up right away, but we need to find a
way to calm you down." He outside to another counselor, "Hey
Justin, go get Travis, his roommate, over here to clean this up."
Then, he says to me, "Just breathe and tell me what's really
going on."
"This
just reminds me too much of how my brother used to rifle through my
things without ever asking. I never said anything to him because he
was a foot taller than me and would have beat me up. I just can't
escape these situations. I'll always be the one that gets run
over."
He
says, "You know that's not true. But we're going to fix this
and do it calmly."
I
say, "How do I forget what's been already done to me?"
He
says, "You don't, but you will get better at managing every day,
I promise, but you have to work hard at it and keep a positive
outlook. Positivity is key. Now here comes your roommate to clean
everything up and apologize." I watched him clean up the stuff, we
shook hands, and I started to feel better.
Leaving
the dorms, we both walk out into the field where the group is
assigned the daily tasks. I work with Alice and Jennifer for the
morning. They're both from California. They both worked in Silicon
Valley with really amazing high-pressure jobs in the tech industry.
They had been at the farm longer than I had, and at this point, they
both seem to be at peace with it. We take turns milking the cows, and
I was amazed at how at ease I am around these girls Multitasking is
discouraged at the farm but sloth and inactivity isn't. I am tired
by lunch break, and we've filled up eighteen jugs so far. I go by
the office to take my medicine, and I start to feel more at ease as
the benzodiapines start to kick in. This stuff is a street drug
outside, but my doctor says the medication properly managed will help
me sleep and cope better. What's really been helping me cope better
is talking to all these interesting people here, and I feel like I
could write a book about them by the time we are done, but there's
a confidentiality clause in the admissions process kind of like at an
AA meeting. Oh well, I think what I have to say in my counseling
sessions would more than fill up a book, and like clockwork, another
one rolls around on Tuesday of the next week.
I
found a new app on my phone that gives me anxiety reducing
meditations, and I really needed
them
today because my therapist was running forty-five minutes late. She
had to run to her kid's school
to
pick him up sick and rush him to the doctor's before starting my
session, the first one after the lunch hour. I wonder how a person
could teach people how to be less stressed if they had such stress in
their own lives. The thing about the farm and Oregon is that it's
easy to smile in those situations, and my i-phone is a life-saver
with its meditation apps. She doesn't skip a beat as she walks in
the door and calmly invites me back to her office as coolly as she
had the first time we had met. She offers me some tea, and this time
I take some green stuff with lemon. I need to stay calm for what I'm
about to go over.
The
therapist noticed that I walked in looking dejected with bad posture,
and she suggested that we start with some breathing exercises. Just
past twenty breaths, she says, "Okay, I think we can start now."
I
tear up but start in anyway. "Alcoholism ruined my childhood. I
also knew that my mom was my idol. We had the same interests, sports,
history and foreign language, but I felt from a young age that I
carried the weight of all the expectations that family, alcohol and
circumstance robbed her of. As a young child, I never knew that there
was a problem, but my sister did. I halfway wish she had clued me in
earlier, but that wasn't to be. All I knew is there was a lot of
yelling in the house, but I never really knew why. When I did find
out at twelve that she drank too much, I could only weep inside
watching her with her drink beside her, reading trash novels until
midnight and watching Sportscenter. There was no way she could go
back to teaching the way her drinking was. She tried to go back to
school to get credits for certification, but the pressure exceeded
her reading ability and coping skills. As a last resort, she learned
to do insurance for my dad's office, and depending on her binges,
she would show up at the office between 10 and 12 every other day if
they were lucky. I alone felt sorry for her, and a lot of good it did
me. Co-dependency is rough, and considering that my siblings took
after my dad, they had only a little trouble separating themselves
from my mother. I don't want to make it sound like it didn't
bother them, but they were just able to be a bit less conflicted
later on. I learned at a party in high school the hard way that you
never bring up the fact that your parent has a drinking problem to
people you don't know very well. I carried around a lot of hurt at
school as well, and it didn't help that people were mean to me and
that I had few close friends. I can remember seeing an ad for Jim
Beam on TV on day and having the uncontrollable urge to go to
Kentucky and burn down the factory. But I was back to drinking beer
on Friday night. I learned to rationalize early, and I thought that
beer was okay but that liquor was absolutely off-limits. The whole
small town Southern Episcopalian scene in our town glorified drinking
as the lubricant of upper-middle-class society, and it made me mad
and powerless at the same time. The worst thing was my dad's
attitude. He drank, but he couldn't be an alcoholic and a doctor,
so that problem was solved. But he was absolutely fatalistic about my
mom's drinking. His parents were alcoholics later in life, and he
considered it to be his lot in life to live with alcoholics. What I
could see clearer than anyone was that my dad was an asshole and
treated my mom poorly, but because my siblings took after my dad,
they didn't blame my dad. It takes more energy to be mad at both of
them and to be trapped between to clones of my father for most of my
childhood. Then, there's the question of whether or not I was an
alcoholic. I don't think so, but I stuffed my emotions a lot by
drinking. I just wanted to know why my mother drank so much so that I
could do something to make it all right. Once in college, she came to
pick me up, and she stonewalled me for an hour and a half refusing to
utter a word about why she drank so much. She had the unique ability
to clam up on topics that she didn't want to address. I spent Bid
Day at my fraternity drowning my sorrows rather than having fun. At
that age, I did a lot of things out of a sense of duty, and drinking
was one of them. I look back now see all the waste that alcohol has
caused. It kills joy and replaces it with hurt, sarcasm and
nostalgia. I longed for my early childhood when everything was great,
but I can't ever get back those wonderful playtimes splashing in my
grandparent's pool.
The
therapist interrupts, "This was a lot to process. Is your Mom still
drinking now?"
"Yes."
I reply. "But less than before."
She
says, "You understand it's a disease. Like you have bipolar, she
has alcoholism. It's going to be a struggle for both of you , but
you can make it. Now I want you to pick up some literature about
being the adult child of an alcoholic on your way out. We'll talk
about some of it next time. Believe me, you're not the only one out
there going through the exact same thing. You will find comfort in
knowing that eventually. Just remember, this isn't your fault. Now,
why don't we close with a meditation. Would like some more tea.
"Sure"
I say.
We
drift off in a trance like state, and before I know it I'm pulling
back up to the farm with a smile on my face.
The
next two weeks at the farm are busy. We get a new sheepdog, Rex, as
both a therapy dog and as a pet for the director. Everyone loves that
dog, and he is very playful and affectionate. We take turns at
evening program snuggling up next to him, and everything seems okay
when you snuggle up to his belly. I also make friends with the
chickens that I have to tend to every morning, and I discover that
they each have their own unique personalities. I'm not saying that
they're smart or anything, but they are lovable. The geese are a
different story. They poop everywhere and serve no discernable
purpose. The daily chores start to build to the point that I don't
even notice that another month has gone by. Therapy meetings more and
more focus on my immediate future than my past, and here in Oregon,
things seems hopeful. However, I have no family support system here
in Oregon, so I am probably going to have to go back to North
Carolina to live with my sister for a while until I get settled. I
will miss the fresh air and the camaraderie, but I am also hoping
that there is a normal life out there for me somewhere. On a Friday,
I go into town to get a full tune-up on my car because I am heading
back across the country in a week. I am going to stop in Denver on
the way back because my aunt just moved there, but the rest of the
trip will be pretty lonely. That afternoon, I scour the thrift stores
to find used audiobooks to listen to so that I am not alone with my
thoughts for the whole ride back east. I sit up by the lake until 3
am the night before I leave just to soak in the cool air and inner
peace that I've found here. May it carry with me to a saner
reality.
I
don't look back pulling out of the gates, and before I know it, I'm
at my aunt's table in Denver enjoying a home-cooked meal. She
doesn't have much news to relay except a little bit about what her
son's up to in Montana. I thank her for the hospitality and head
off for a very boring drive. I pull into my sister's driveway, and
no one is home. I just sit in my car listening to my audio book until
she pulls in behind me. We hug, and I get my stuff out of the back of
the car. Inside, she tells me that my mom has arranged a therapist
visit for next week and job interview for the week after that. I get
this sneeking suspicion that I am going to need to find a job out of
state soon because having my overbearing mom control everything in my
life is just not what Oregon set me up to do. Then, after dinner and
after my sister's kids are in bed, I find out what is really going
on. My mom's drinking has gotten much worse. My sister's just
glad that I was off in Oregon while it escalated. They're not sure
what to do. We spend the next few days walking on eggshells, and I
talk to my mom twice on the phone, and she seems okay to me.
Things
come to a head the next Tuesday when my cousin Susie in Atlanta gets
a strange, friendly call from my mom at 7 am. She is calling to chat
about some trivial family business, only she was drinking for the
past twenty-four hours, and she thought that it was 7 pm. After she
gets off the phone with my mom, she calls my brother in Charlotte and
sets the wheels in motion for staging an intervention. About ten
friends and family are notified to attend, and we find an
interventionist, Mr. George Stone, from Charlotte that came highly
recommended throughout the whole process. At this point, my
recommended as needed anxiety meds go up to three a day, and my
sister wonders if it's even a good idea for me to attend the
intervention. I decide to do it anyway, and in a few days I'm on my
way to Gastonia to do my part.
I
pull up to the IHOP just outside Gastonia and see my aunt Cindy
waiting in the parking lot. She's my dad's sister, and she
doesn't have to be here. I'm glad she is because she has always
been nice to me. We talk about Oregon for ten minutes, and I start to
feel so wrapped up in my own issues that I almost forget why I'm
here. The intervention. Several more relatives and close friends
arrive so we can all get our marching orders from Helen. After much
build-up, she simply goes over the secrecy of the whole thing and the
schedule for the rehearsal next Monday followed by the actual
intervention the following day. My mom's good friend Rachel is
letting us use her house for it, and the whole thing hinges on a
proposed bridge game between old friends, some of whom rarely see
each other anymore. The pancakes are delicious, and I feel oddly at
ease listening to old stories among relatives until it's time to
head home to sit out an especially anxious week.
The
next Monday comes. I find myself sitting in a fold-out chair in
Rachel's living room listening to Mr. Stone's white-board lecture
on the progressive disease of alcoholism. It's not new information,
but his delivery drives home its seriousness. He says that the
intervention has to create a bottom for my mom where the only way out
is to get help. At the break, I find myself wondering if I reached my
bottom and gotten the help I needed in Oregon. I can't wonder long
because after the break, we assemble to practice the intervention in
two rounds: the statement and the consequences. In the statements,
everyone says how we were hurt by her drinking, and during the
consequences, we say what will happen if she doesn't get help. At
that point, any number of scenarios seem possible, and I'm so
nervous that I don't sleep that night.
The
next day, I park two blocks away and walk to the house. She can't
be allowed to see familiar vehicles in the vicinity and be tipped
off. Everyone is there. Her college roommate from New Jersey arrived
three hours ago just to do her part. We are ready, but I start to
feel queasy. I remembered to bring my medicine bag, so I take an
anxiety pill and a Mylanta with a big glass of water. I go over my
prepared lines in my head until the door opens. My mom sweeps a
glance of recognition over the whole room before dropping her head.
Standing by the door next to her, Rachel says, "Ann. Listen. We
just want to talk to you." She grabs my mom's hand and gently
walks her over to the one empty chair. My mom doesn't say a word.
She spent decades perfecting a stone-cold expression that never let
her emotions show, and even now, her face doesn't flinch. Mr. Stone
says to her, "You'll have your turn at the end, but first, these
people have something that they'd like to say."
My
sister starts. "Mom, I couldn't bear to see you stumbling around
while preparing lunches for my brothers at night when they were
little. I couldn't bring my girlfriends to spend the night inmiddle
school because I was too embarrassed. But that doesn't matter now.
I have kids. What am I going to tell them when you are always
repeating yourself. That their grandma's a drunk. Mom, please get
help. I want my mother back."
Her
old roommate, Margaret, says, "Ann, you really hurt me when I came
down for Run Gastonia, and you were too hung over to watch me
compete. I showed up at your house afterward, and you were just
making breakfast at 11:30. Please get help. I want my friend back."
My
father clears his throat and says, "Love, I hate to see you like
this. All those nights I carried you home from dinner parties hurt
me. Alcohol has destroyed too much of your talent and ability. You
know I want the best for us. Please get help."
It's
my turn, and I choke up. I can't handle it. I just manage to say,
"Please get help, Mom. I don't want to be embarrassed to have you
as a mother anymore. Please get help."
The
testimonies go on, and I start to feel a bit dizzy. Everyone just
wants her to get help and feels that this is long overdue. Through it
all, my mom is utterly still. I desperately want to know what she's
thinking, but she's a steel trap. After the statements, Mr. Stone
offers her a chance to get help by travelling in my brother's
waiting car to the treatment center. She stays bolted to her chair.
Mr.
Stone says, "Now, everyone will have the chance to share what will
happen next if you choose to keep drinking." We start from a
different side of the room, and Uncle Ted says, "If you don't get
help, we won't see much of each other anymore, I'm afraid."
A
weak beginning compared to my father's powerful and utterly
resigned consequence. He says, "If you don't get help, we won't
have much time left together." He wouldn't leave her.
Co-dependency has been his life, but it still leaves him near tears.
I
think that my mom is starting to crack through the next two
consequences, but it took my sister's to finally do it.
She
look my mother right in the eyes and says, "Mom, if you don't get
help, you won't ever see your grandkids again." The effect is
like a bomb going off in the living room. Stunned silence fills the
room, and all eyes turn to my mother. In exactly five seconds. My mom
lifts her head, nods and says simply, "Okay." She walks out the
door followed by my bother, the chauffeur,
The
next time I see my mother she's out of rehab and sober. She says
she's ready to put the past behind her. If only I am not so wrapped
up in the past. Part of me is back in Oregon doing breathing
exercises and part of me is flashing back to my early childhood at my
grandfather's pool swimming after my mother's raft. Happiness and
joy mix with relief and anxiety because it's not over. Living with
bipolar is a daily struggle, and I have to get started, ready or not.
I start to look for a job in Brevard. I find one shelving books at
the local library. It's part-time, but it gets me out of the house.
I also start studying and reading in my free time. If I wasn't
really good at managing my affairs, I was always good at school.
Weeks turned into months, and I added another part-time job and got a
place in Brevard. Everything felt so up in the air, but tenuous felt
better than free-fall. I didn't need to take the GRE because my
scores were still good from before. However, I am adjusting my
expectations greatly. I have decided to become a librarian, and I
won't even have to leave Brevard to do it. There's an online
course through UNC-Greensboro, and I arrange to work part-time as a
library assistant in Brevard while I complete my two-year degree. I
won't ever make a lot of money or equal the success of my siblings,
but I think it will make me happy. My new therapist is thrilled for
me, but we still have a lot of work to do with dealing with fear,
anxiety and interpersonal skills. At this point, it all seems
overwhelming, but being close to my sister make a big difference
because I know I always have support. Two years later, I walk at the
graduation ceremony in Greensboro, and three months later, I get a
librarian job in Greenville, SC that proves very challenging due to
the work environment. However, two years later, a job opens up in
Fayetteville, NC that's a perfect fit for now, and I breathe a sigh
of relief that my life has achieved a moment of peace. In my free
time, I start taking some creative writing classes like I've always
wanted to do, and I see my sister's kids as often as possible. I
know that meds and treatment are my reality now, but life has so much
more to offer that I ever thought possible on my first day in the
hospitable and that even nightmares can have happy endings.
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