One of the things I admired most about David Lovelace's brilliant work Scattershot is that he could humbly write about his most awkward moments as a manic depressive. Of course people realize now that mania and depression are two symptoms of being bi-polar, however how much of our actions can we really blame on this disease? I have read that bi-polar people suffer low self-esteem and that in women especially this can manifest in promiscuity. What about snapping at your child or arguing with your spouse? What about shooting up your high school? Where do we draw a line between personal responsibility and the disease?
It is painful to look back and assess my life. Two suicide attempts, dramatics, less than stellar grades, failed relationships, jumping from school to school and then job to job. I look back now with a jaundiced eye... who was I? Where did the real me surface and how many of my failures can I blame on being bi-polar?
When I was 26, living in Richmond, and unemployed I met and started dating a very handsome young man who was 4 years younger than I. That in itself was not the problem. The problem was that I gravely ill and no one knew it. Everyone assumed that any depression I felt stemmed from being unemployed and once I entered this relationship with Kevin, people believed that my spirits would lift. They did, briefly, and then the disease strangled me. I pushed Kevin away, sure that I was unworthy, a pervasive theme throughout my life. I kept telling him the age difference was insurmountable and when he had had enough and called my bluff, I was devastated. I drove my car into the country and picked an empty county lane. I emptied the contents of a ziploc bag full of prescriptions I had stolen from my mother's medicine cabinet into my lap and methodically began to wash the pills down with a six pack. This is where things get fuzzy. I drove to Kevin's house, who I knew was out of town, and entered his apartment (because I knew where the key was) and fumbled drunkenly through his things. I don't remember what I was looking for or even what I found, but I ended up back at my mother's house. I walked into the kitchen while she and her friend Sally were chatting. I know I spoke to them but I cannot recall what I must have said. I rushed to the back bathroom and drew a bath. I can still feel the warm water enveloping me, washing me. I submerged hoping to just fall asleep. My mother in the meantime was banging on the door threatening to break in. I promised to open the door but instead hastily clothed myself and jumped out the bathroom window. Either my brother Andrew or Sally caught me there. And that is how I ended up at the UVA psych ward for a week.
What was me? Since childhood I have been characterized as dramatic... am I? When did this disease surface? What could I have accomplished without it? What can I accomplish now that I am medicated? All I am certain of is what I wasn't... and that was healthy.
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