During my long/short 49 years, I’ve completed some of the milestones "Dick a nd Jane" said were important. I married. The first time was a struggle; we passed some incredibly difficult and dangerous years. He was an abusive alcoholic and, I understand now, very mentally ill. I escaped with my life. Later, I met my current husband, and cautiously entered into another committed relationship. I’ve been married to this deliciously delightful man for 24 years. I’ve completed an education that includes a nursing degree and a Master’s Degree (in Rehabilitation Counseling). I’ve worked full time, part-time, and no time. I now have my own business (as a Reiki practitioner) and have been blessed enough to be able to work part-time, creating my own hours. I get up every day and interact with people, bring in a fair income, pay my bills, and live in a house that I love. We have 3 cats, 2 dogs (no kids).

  If I sat down with a psych, without being honest, and gave these details, he/she would mark me as "normal," and wonder what I was doing in the office. This is the slippery, seductive facade of being Bipolar II, raised by parents who pretended that one of them wasn’t an alcoholic. That one of them wasn’t horribly compromised by mental illness. That giving your children to relatives was an accepted course of events. That having your daughters molested was unfortunate, but nothing to be "unduly concerned" about. What I learned about not being honest regarding mental illness and alcoholism almost cost me my marriage, my life. So, now, when I sit down with a psych, I’m honest. About the fact that I have mood swings. That some days, although I get out of bed, I stay in my "jammies." Some days, when I don’t have clients, I don’t shower. Or wash my hair. I get dressed just before my husband comes home. Some days I smile, and it’s legitimate. Some days, I laugh..a lot. And the world is an incredibly bright light that I buzz around. And I shop. Some days I smile, and it’s as phony as the "leather" of my shoes. Some days I cry and tell my husband the truth. But always, now, I’ m honest with myself. And always, I honor myself.

  The first three years were fortunately fairly balanced My father left for Korea when I was 3 months old (returning when I was 3 years old). Without the agitation of an alcoholic husband, my mother was fairly intact. My siblings at home (3 sisters and a brother) took my caretaking seriously, and provided me with a stable, consistent nurturing base. They were, most likely, the lifeline to whatever claim to mental health I have. When my father returned from Korea, our home quickly fell apart. My parents divorced, my siblings began hitting variable adolescent crises, and we moved to a small shack in the woods. But, I had a new lifeline...my grandparents, who came to live in the house next to ours. For the next 4 years, my grandfather would provide a semblance of stability in what had become a ruinous house of chaos. As a young child, I was variably gregarious and silent. Connected, then withdrawn. Though I don’t remember anything about what I thought or felt during those early years, one report in the first grade identified that I was "quite talkative, and didn’t concentrate enough". I would need to learn to "settle down". I understand, now, that the roots of my behavior were complex...less about being "a brat" and a "bad seed" (my mother’s description) and more about having a temperament and genetic predisposition that would (initially) direct my responses to an incredibly chaotic home environment.

  By the third grade, after surviving abuse, abandonment and loss, I was withdrawn, painfully shy. The fragile links of stability, so crucial in those early years, were splintering. My brother and one sister were gone by the time I was five, the other two sisters had married and moved out, one eventually leaving for California with my niece and nephew, the other for Arkansas. My grandparents had returned to the east coast. My mother had a serious "break"during the summer of my third year (a simple phrase to depict a horrendous time in my young life). We struggled in poverty for several years, moving from one low-rent studio apartment to another. My father (I’ve been told) made frequent "visits." I only remember one...his drunken self standing in the doorway, blood running from a cut finger after an automobile accident.

  When I was eight, my parents remarried. We began years of "serious" moving...ripping me away from my last threads of familiarity..my friends and home state. By thirteen, I was banging my head on the wall, praying for death. At sixteen, I decided to end my education. Mom took me to a school counselor for evaluation. The results: I was just experiencing "normal" adolescent adjustment stress. Hmmmm....so that’s what it was called. Looking back now, I realize how absolutely out of control my emotions and spirit were...how quickly I was spiraling downward into an abyss of mood swings, confusion, low self esteem and self recrimination. We bargained. I completed high school in a fog of misery, graduating in spite of the odds. Married early. Divorced early. I’d had scattered "meetings" with all of my siblings by this time...meetings that were enough to recreate the pain of loss, without any "real" connection, bonding. I became truly aware of how isolated I’d been growing up.

  During my early twenties, I experimented with drugs and alcohol...pot, speed, wine, gin. I was always too afraid to put anything stronger in my body, intuitively knowing that my chemistry was a little "off." I was the only one in my crowd to remain "flat" on speed, to become dangerously anesthetized by pot. To became deathly ill after "drinking binges." My mid-twenties were a blessing of natural hypomanias, with very few depressive episodes. My unsuspecting husband met me during these years. Neither of us had any hint about how depressed I would become. About what path we would have to trudge in order to regain half of the joy we’d experienced during the first years. By my late twenties, I’d begun the slow, plodding slide into the first of many major depressive episodes, broken only by sporadic bursts of hypomania. Driven by hormones and the dream of "2.5 kids", I struggled with what would become a losing battle over infertility. If you’ve made this journey yourself, I don’t have to explain...you’ve been there, too. We’ve met, glanced at each other through the blurred vision of agonized tears. If you’ ve not encountered this odyssey, no amount of verbiage could convey the tormenting emptiness of never bearing a child of your own. Finalized by a precipitous hysterectomy, at thirty-two, my battle against major depression floundered and failed. The winter of ‘82 brought me to my knees. We’d moved to an ancient, dilapidated trailer in the middle of the woods (beautiful in the summer, but gloomy, dark, damp and deadly cold in the winter). I don’t know which carried the heaviest burden..the screaming, searing pain of abdominal surgery (that my body found very familiar from early childhood experiences), or the exquisite agony of meeting, head on, the truth about being forever childless. I’d recently graduated from nursing school, so I attempted to grab a semblance of "normal" living by launching into an exhausting nursing career.

  But mood swings and frail emotional responses to the most innocuous circumstances brought confusion and consternation. Neither my husband nor I could grasp the magnitude of our situation. During the years from ‘82-’86, I plunged into my work, desperately seeking balance. The hypomanias helped charge me through the demands of busy rehabilitation and home health nursing. Through the demands of full time schooling (obtaining my bachelor’s degree in nursing) while working full time. Then, in 1986, while participating in an advanced nurse practitioner program, my father suffered a massive heart attack. After two grueling weeks in the hospital, he was ready to be discharged. At 4:00 pm, on a Thursday evening, I visited him and made plans to return the next morning, to bring him home. They called me at 7:00 pm. My father was dead. He’d suffered another massive heart attack. My world, quite literally, fell apart. I was swallowed up in a depression so deep that it severed my spirit, and threatened to tear my marriage apart. For the next several years, I plodded through the formality of living...working and hanging on to a troubled marriage. In this blur, we traveled to other countries, maintained relationships with friends. Went to the movies. Took care of my mother (who was elderly and frail by now). But pleasure had been replaced by emptiness. Life continued out of obligation.

  I sought counseling and began to look at the "issues" of my life. Met with a psychiatrist who misdiagnosed me as "depressed." Period. I’d finally reconnected with the sister closest to me in age. We shared our divergent experiences of childhood and forged a relationship, based on adult love and respect, versus shared childhood bonds. In therapy, I learned coping skills. I met "my inner child." But no one introduced me to my genetic make-up. No one made a connection between my mother’s mental illness and my slide into oblivion. That wouldn’t come for many more years.

  Finally, toward the end of 1987, I began to crawl out of the abyss. I made what would turn out to be a life saving decision. Graduate school. I wanted to work as a vocational rehabilitation counselor. Help people with disabilities. I no longer had the energy or heart for nursing. I was "used up." Exhausted. I preferred to sit and listen. What I’m finally able to admit, is that I was no longer up to the task of nursing. Emotionally, intellectually, physically, or spiritually. I had to change, if I was going to survive.

   Graduate school gave me the most difficult years (full time work, full time studies). And, it brought many gifts...I met myself and became aware that something was definitely "not right. " I was a slave to my moods. My marriage was crumbling. I was in trouble. Suicide had never seemed so appealing. I sat for hours, meditating...praying for cancer. To cover my bets, I held a loaded .38 caliber pistol to my head. Almost as if controlled by someone else, the gun was placed to my temple. I can still feel the cool promise of the rounded barrel tip pressing against my warm skin. A voice softer than my own, a life force driven by a spiritual source deeper than the pleadings of my own mind, held the trigger in a locked position. I didn’ t realize then that my life would have a much larger purpose. That there was, indeed, a place for me in this world. How simple it all seems now. No matter how great the pain, the purpose of life, revealed in such minute moments that they’re missed if one doesn’t pay attention, is absolute. The moment I make eye contact with one person beyond my own mirror, I’ve negated my right to cross the boundary of faith that I will remain. I realize, now, how sacred my presence is. How sacred all of us are.

  As I hit the winter of 1990, my spring graduation date whispered a promise. Mysteriously, I sank into another gripping depression. But now, I was experienced enough, educated enough, to know that I was ill (though I still had no idea how ill). Recognizing that medications might help, I met with two different psychiatrists, searching for competence. Fortunately, the second one was a wise physician who would briefly pass through my life. And change it forever. Very quickly, he recognized and diagnosed bipolar II disorder. I started a regime of medication trials, finally settling on Wellbutrin. This helped my mood swings remain at a tolerable level. The hypomanias were an enticing temptation of hope, and the depressive episodes were less severe. It now seemed possible to cope with the confusing blend of emotions. My husband and I had met with a counselor and had learned to talk. To express our love for each other, again. Our marriage developed a depth that felt far beyond what I’d ever hoped for. I continued my therapy and "worked" through more repressed rage and confusion. But even with the diagnosis and medications, neither my therapist nor I recognized the significance of this genetic anomaly. I secured a good paying job as a VRC. We made plans to build a real house. Though precarious, my moods were balanced enough that I thought I’d passed the tests.

   In the summer of 1990, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. This event brought many changes to the family structure. One brother visited briefly, then disappeared forever; my oldest brother visited, and reestablished himself as an important person in my life. But I was the only one who lived close to Mom. Her illness brought an increased intensity to our relationship. Vulnerable and emotionally fragile (covered masterfully with the outrageous voice and energy of a righteous narcissist), my mother collapsed rapidly. Easily. To her, impending death was a relief. She became very needy. Our relationship, always bittersweet and tumultuous, ground to a slow crawl. Neither of us had the energy to soothe over all the wounds we’d inflicted on each other. It seemed too late to heal. Too late to connect. She dwindled for a year, pulled into herself and created a wall that forever placed me on the outside of her heart. She died days before my birthday. I said my final good bye to her the same day I turned 42. The most complex, painful relationship of my life had ended. It would take me another 5 years to understand.

  Again, the years took on a "blurred" screen. I left work as a vocational rehabilitation counselor..again too overwhelmed by the requirements of a more than full time, demanding career. I returned to home health ..pressed my way through more years of full time nursing and social work. Last year, I finally stopped pretending that what I experience is "the blues." I confronted the truth. I have a significant mental illness. It’s called bipolar II disorder. It is life threatening. And, it is life enhancing.

  Finally, in the fall of 1997, I made a move that would improve the quality of my life beyond my wildest dreams. I sat down with my husband and said I could no longer force myself to work full time. I’d become educated as a Reiki practitioner, with Healing Touch and Therapeutic Touch. I was good at it. But my moods, and coping, allowed only enough energy for part-time work. Period. Could he live with this? Yes. He built me a beautiful office near our home. I thought I’d had it mastered.

  Then, this past winter, my husband sustained a fairly severe work injury. One dog broke her leg. Another dog got "chewed up" by a neighbor’s dog. Another dog, old and feeble, had to be "euthanized." Finances became scarce and tenuous. I again entered into a deep depressive episode. I found the gun again. And, I realized, for the first time, how absolutely chemical this was. Resumed Wellbutrin enough to function. And began the search for a psychiatrist that I could work with

This story ends in the middle. I’m practicing a holistic lifestyle..attending to a more natural rhythm of living. I embrace the importance of exercise, diet, sleep. The richness of my work. Reach out and accept the love and support of my friends, family, colleagues. I stay connected with my higher power. Every day. Take my meds. I read. And write. Endeavor to learn more about this disorder every day. I’m writing an autobiography..to put this all in one place. To help others with bipolar II.

  Several things in my life are richer now. I’ve grieved and put to rest the loss of relationship with my other siblings (one sister died six months before my mother, another sister is hopelessly lost to the ravages of unaccepted/untreated mental illness; one brother just "disappeared"). I have forgiven my parents. I have a relationship that is solid with my sister closest in age (who lives nearby) and my oldest brother (who unfortunately lives in another state). I’ve connected with my nieces and nephew, helping to maintain a sense of continuity in a family broken apart by chaos. And I bless my life. My husband. And, this disorder that has brought so much intensity and spirit.
 
 

Story by Linda Staples