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 at the disclosure.
I know that it has become trendy to label anyone with minor mood swings “manic-depressive,” just as how trendy it was a few years ago to call yourself “codependent,” or to say that you came from a “dysfunctional family.” Even minor mood swings can be disconcerting, especially when they evolve beyond tolerable elation or depression over normal life situations. But they should not be ignored, because bipolarity can be a progressive disease. Every one of us has a different point at which out-of-control-ness becomes overwhelming.
In my situation, the progression took decades, then sped up over months to the point of near-fatality. For years, it manifested itself in increasingly protracted depression. I saw periods of elation as welcome respites of normalcy. Talk therapy did not help. The understanding and patience of family and friends did not help. Turning to God did not help. Paxil and Effexor helped for a while, but then lost their efficacy.
When does bipolarity go out of control? For me, it was when mood swings became so radical, so detached from reality, that my behavior became harmful to me and those around me. The peaks and valleys looped higher, lower and cycled so quickly that actions became unpredictable and turned without a moment’s notice.
Did I see it on myself? Not at first. But it was there. Outbursts against my loving wife became frequent, intense and full of language the likes of which I had never spoken. Every day was riddled with morbid thoughts that even the birth of my first grandchild could only briefly assuage. After all, I would think, maybe she would be better off never knowing someone so miserable?
All this was punctuated by interludes of grandiosity and obsessive behavior. In my case, my outlet was eBay. Laugh if you wish. I created the fantasy of building a collection of cuff links. I spent hundreds of dollars amassing a collection of 60 sets of cuff links and, of course, numerous French-cuffed shirts to display them. Crazy, huh? I told you so.
This was also when my relationship with my congregation looped out of control: elation, depression, anger, untenable expectations, increasingly vituperative outbursts in meetings, and even from the pulpit. I still believe that critical issues and differing visions drove congregation and me apart. Yet, in recovery, how can one help but ponder how the situation might have evolved differently?
Finally, Linda’s ultimatum pushed me to a doctor who specialized in the pharmacology of mental illness. I owe Linda and him my life. He was convinced, with good reason, of the neuro-chemical basis of bipolarity. No, anti-depressants alone would not solve the problem. The additional medication he prescribed seems to be working remarkably well. The angry outbursts have ceased, as have the morbid thoughts. I have deleted eBay from my “favorite places” and lost 10 pounds. The medication certainly enables me to manage life’s typical highs, lows and even significant disappointments without self-destructive tailspins.
Am I still scared? You bet. 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 61, I fear that my father’s descent into Alzheimer’s at age 70 bodes ominous for me. I fear that my grandfather’s mood swings as he descended into senility (then called “fits of whimsy”) 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 to savor. I still have many Sabbaths and holidays to celebrate. I still have many festive dinners to cook and serve, surrounded by family and friends who stood by me through the worst of times. I still have many acts of kindness waiting to be performed. Nine years may just not be enough. I will take that as a challenge, not as a reason for despair.
Now, anybody want to buy a pair of cuff links? Holy smoke, I have a drawer full.
Rabbi Marc Howard Wilson lives in Greenville, S.C.
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