I AM A RECOVERING MANIC-DEPRESSIVE

This is not a story of the distant past. It is of the here-and-now. I retell it without shame, but with trepidation, knowing that such intimacy might cause some of my nearest and dearest to chafe. Nonetheless, this is part of the needed catharsis, and if it helps someone else who shares this horrific syndrome, so much the better.

I know that it has become tres chic to label anyone with minor mood swings “manic-depressive,” just like how trendy it was a couple of years ago to call yourself “codependent,” or to say that you came from a “dysfunctional family.” Yet, even minor mood swings can be disconcerting, especially when they start evolving beyond tolerable elation or depression over normal life situations. Nor should they be ignored, because bipolarity can be a progressive disease. Every one of us has a different point at which the sense of out-of-control-ness becomes overwhelming.

In my situation, the progression took decades, but then sped up over months to the point of near-fatality. For years, it had manifested itself in increasing protracted and morbid depression. I interpreted any periods of elation as welcome respites of normalcy. Talk-therapy seemed not to help. The profound understanding and patience of family and friends seemed not to help. Turning to God and faith seemed not to help. Paxil and Effexor helped for a while, but then lost their efficacy even as I reached maximum dosage.

When does bipolarity go out of control? For me, it was when mood swings became so radical, so detached from reality that my behavior turned injurious to me and those around me. Then the peaks and valleys looped higher and lower and alternated so quickly that my actions became unpredictable and turned without a moment’s notice.

Did I see it on myself? Certainly not at first. But oh, it was there. Outbursts against a loving wife became increasingly frequent, intense and full of vile language the likes of which I had never before spoken. Then I would cry uncontrollably. Every day was riddled with morbid thoughts and suicidal ideation that even the birth of my first grandchild could only temporarily assuage. After all, I would think, would she not be better off never knowing someone so miserable and worthless?

All this was punctuated by distinct interludes of grandiosity and destructively obsessive behavior. In my case, my outlet was eBay. I created the fantasy of building a collection of cufflinks. (My doctor said that that was the first time he had heard of that particular obsession.) Over a number of months, I mindlessly spent hundreds of dollars amassing a collection of sixty sets of cufflinks and, of course, numerous French-cuffed shirts to display them. Crazy, huh? I told you so.

This was also when my relationship with the congregation looped out of control: elation, depression, anger, untenable expectations, increasingly vituperative outbursts in meetings, writings and even from the pulpit. I still believe that insurmountable issues and differing visions would have driven the congregation and me apart. Yet, in recovery, how can one help but ponder the “what if’s”?

Finally, Linda’s ultimatum pushed me to a doctor who specialized in the pharmacology of mental illness. I owe him my life. He was convinced, with good reason, of the neuro-chemical basis of illnesses like bipolarity. No, he insisted, anti-depressants alone would not solve the problem. The medication he prescribed, ironically a heavy-duty anti-seizure drug, seems to be working remarkably well. The vile outbursts have ceased, as has the suicidal ideation. I have deleted eBay from my “favorite places” and lost ten pounds. The medication does not make me feel dopey or detached, but it certainly enables me to manage life’s typical highs, lows and even significant disappointments without self-destructive tailspins.

Am I still scared? You bet I am still scared. How much I would like to believe that manic-depression is just mind over matter. I fear that one day the meds will lose their efficacy. At 53, I fear that my father’s descent into Alzheimer’s at 70 bodes ill for me. I fear even more that his father’s obvious bipolarity as he descended into senility also might loom on my horizon.

Certainly, I am grateful for what I have and what an astute psychiatrist helped me to uncover. I still have a lot of grandparently delight yet to savor. I still have many Sabbaths and holidays yet to celebrate. I still have many festive dinners yet to cook and serve, surrounded by loving family and friends who have stood by me through the worst of times. I still have many acts of kindness yet waiting for me to perform. Seventeen years may just not be enough. I will take that as a challenge, not a reason for despair.

Now, anybody want to buy a pair of cufflinks?