Snips and Snails and Bipolar Tales

Riding the Bipolar rollercoaster is not for everyone. Few understand the fine mechanics behind the syndrome, but most have heard all about it from advertisements for the drugs used to "Control" it, or know someone who has the affliction. Some have never actually met a Bipolar or have no idea what a typical day is like for one who endures the syndrome. There are also those who may know a Bipolar, whom they refer to as "My friend who is a little off", but really do not understand what makes their friend just that way.

As I stated, I still am learning about this Syndrome that has been with me since childhood. In my Hub, "What's wrong with that kid?", I talked about how Bipolar affected me as a child, and the steps that were taken to discover what ailed me, and the inability to find any physical reason for the ailments that continued even after hospitalization. Fortunately, or unfortunately, (depending on how you look at it.) my memories of my child hood are rather foggy. That is to say, I remember little of my child hood. Oh, not because I had bad parents, or something terrible happened to me when I was young that clouds my memories. Not at all. I believe that most of it is due to my Bipolar. Things do filter in from time to time. Little memories of that time mostly, but nothing you can string together and actually label a "Memory".

I will tell you this though. I earned a "Label". (We seem to be good at labeling these days.) I was touted as a problem child. I knew right from wrong, but hardly understood the concept. Like, when I shaved our cat. I knew I probably shouldn't, but the thought of having a cat with no fur seemed appealing at the time. I had no plan on doing the animal any harm, (and for those of you who are right now writing me a scathing "Naughty Boy" E-mail, relax! The Cat had the sense to run away from me after I got a good coat of shaving cream lathered up on it.) I just wanted to see what the cat looked like under all that fur. Since the animal seemed to lose interest in the project, I did too and never attempted it again. I tell you this, not because I wanted to shock you, but rather show you how Bipolar can cloud your judgement from time to time.

I do remember a few things from my childhood. I remember that I had times when I would rather be alone, and I do remember times when I would rather be with others, but they were usually adults. The kids my age didn't understand me very well. Maybe it was that I didn't understand them. They seemed to think differently than I did, plus, adults seemed less demanding in the way they treated me. (Of course, when I was younger, their understanding was that I was that poor kid that wasn't quite right and didn't fit in with the other kids.)

As I got older, I began to understand that I was different than the other folks my age. Puberty brought a whole bunch of strangeness into my life. At that point, I felt a darkness closing in around me, and I found it increasingly difficult to get into a happy state of being, and when I did finally achieve a bit of joy, it seemed to be fleeting. I would spend days in my own room, not really talking to anyone, curled up in a ball, laying on my bed. I had no interest in going outside, talking to the few friends I did have, and had problems even convincing myself to do anything more. When I did have moments when I was ready to venture out of my room, I usually waited until no one was home. My parents were at the end of their rope. They didn't, and more importantly couldn't understand what was wrong with me. I was so different from the other kids in the neighborhood, and my mother began blaming herself for my "strangness", when in actuality, it was not her fault. (I know I have said in the past that Bipolar runs in families, but since I was adopted as an infant, she was off the hook. Course you couldn't tell her that!) The yucky green medicine of my child hood was gone. The doctors deemed it unecessary, and besides, since I was old enough to voice my opinion of the ghastly stuff by finding the bottle and emptying it in the toilet, no matter where they would hide it, it was decided that it was just a waste of money.

The ulcer? Well it was gone. But what my parents did not see were the hundreds of cuts, self inflicted, on my legs and arms. I never tried to hurt anyone or any thing else but myself. I had figured out at 14 that I was the problem, and no one else. After being told, as long as I can remember that I would never fit in, I took the pain that caused me internally, and literally began to punish myself. (Told you I was nuts!)

You mean you started to punish yourself? Yup. It was my father that finally caught me. I was in the garage, early one morning. I had climbed the fence in the back yard after sneaking out the night before, and lost my balance, fell and broke a finger when i hit the ground. The logical thing to do, (my brain told me) was to get rid of the broken thing. My father stopped me just before I removed the offending finger with a hatchet. He was understandably, horrified that I would even consider such a thing. We ended up at the family physician who explained to my shocked parents that it was the Hormones of adult hood that were interferring with my judgement process and that soon all would be right with the world. (LOL)

Of course, everyone knows, (So my father told me) the way to deal with a problem child is to send them away to Military School. Well, there was actually more to it than that. I had already been suspended from school several times, and after both the Public and Pherocial schools had bid me a fond farewell, the choices as to where I would finish my education were rather limited. Reform school just didn't hold the charm for me that it did for so many others, and so I was off to march around with all the other little Hitlers. The good news for my parents was that I was gone, and I was someone elses problem. At 15 I was out of the house, and never returned home again. Upon graduation, and it was truely questionable at times if I would, I joined the Navy, and did 10 rather rocky years serving my country.

Still battling ups and downs and various other developements, like these real annoying shadows that I could see out of the corner of my eye, and noises that no one else seemed to hear, and extremely powerful moments of paranoia, bouts of extreme depression, and these very disturbing feelings of overwelming anger and at times doom, I finally had my first manic moment. It lasted for three years.

One day, much to the shock of the woman who had agreed to marry me, I disappeared. I simply got up one day, packed a few things into my car, and took off. I traded my car for a Harley Hard Tail I saw on a lawn in Delaware a couple days later. I figured I had probably been reported missing and that maybe they would be looking for my car. I then made my way across the U.S. I traveled for over two years, alone, drifting from place to place, stopping only long enough to find work to pay for gas, food and lodging. I was in heaven. I was alone, and I didn't have to answer to a single individual, except myself. I would probably still be out there cruising around if fate had not intervened.

I ran into a couple at a bar. They took me in after we sat and talked into the wee hours of the morning. Turned out the guy was a Therapist, doing a Thesis on Bipolar. The strange thing was, I probably had not talked to more than three people in the two years prior to that. Strange I would sit down with these total strangers and spill my guts, but I did, and that is when I first learned what exactly was wrong with me. Here was someone, after all these years, that didn't judge me for the things I said, or the feelings I had all bundled up inside. He listened to me. This was a first. He finally convinced me to seek help.

I will leave it at that. Yes, it has been an uphill battle, figuring out what works, and what dosen't. Although I feel I finally have a handle on things now, I sometimes wonder how I actually made it to this point. Let me add however, a couple years after that fateful moment, I did have a complete breakdown. I still believe it was due to all the medications I had been put on. The whole ordeal seems to have really clouded alot of things which occured back then, and along with childhood memories, my past seems to have slipped into a fogbank that I have never been able to clear away. As a matter of fact, I can't even tell you the years this even occured, and putting things in chronological order is nearly impossible for me. Most of the memories I have of the past are so jumbled, I can't begin to sort them out. It is more like they are stored in a heap in the corners of my memory. (Makes it real fun when you are trying to put together an employment history on Job Applications.)

So, thats my story and I am sticking to it! That is about as accurate as I can get, and you all heard it here, first! Anyway dear readers, I have only a couple of things to add.

There are a lot of us out there. Some of us have stories, some of us don't. Some of us don't even know what exactly is wrong with us, some of us do. It seems that there are people out there who know others that seem to never be quite in step with the rest of the world. My advice is to keep an open mind, be understanding, be patient, and try to be supportive of those you love and care about who live with Bipolar. I know we can be a bit goofy at times, but isn't everyone from time to time?

Oh, and just so that you can go out and impress someone with your knowledge, Kristi McNichol and Drew Carey are Bipolar. Till next time, happy Bipolaring!