Love

Photo by Jamez Picard on Unsplash

You could say I’ve had it easy.

There’s a comment on my book Handling Anxiety in a Time of Crisis on the Goodreads site that always confused me. The commenter said she couldn’t finish the book because it was written from such a place of privilege it made her sick. And then there was this email I got when I used to write for PsychCentral. The woman said my writing made her sick because I always made things sound so easy and I always seemed to cope so well.

Every writer wants to provoke a response in their readers, but I really never meant to make anyone sick.

This year I’m the one who’s been sick, and I have no clue what privilege a person who has struggled most of his life with bipolar disorder, and for the past few months not very successfully, could possibly have. And yes, I try to keep my writing positive and things often do work out, considering, but lately they’re not working out at all.

At least not until right now. I think I’ve turned a corner, and it’s because of something I’m lucky enough to have that I know not everyone with bipolar disorder does have – love.

On one of our first dates I told my wife I had bipolar disorder. She didn’t leave skid marks as she raced from the bar. No. She asked me, “If things get challenging what can I do to help?” That moment is when my life changed.

She has put up with more this year than any person should ever be made to. You see, I haven’t had a bad spell of full-on mixed episode rapid cycling bipolar 1 stuff in nearly twenty years. And we were married 14 years ago, so she’s never experienced it. Until now.

I left work and went on disability. I dealt poorly with unreasonable and misdirected anger and rage that scared and deeply affected my wife, Niki, and our daughter. I was obsessed with self- harm and ready to trash any chance of a positive future we as a family could ever have.

It came at the worst time possible. Niki grew up at the beach and always wanted to return to the beach. This Spring she got her wish and bought a beach house. Her best summer ever, the epitome of all she worked for, lay right around the corner. And I torched it with my behavior. But she hung in there with me, suffered silently (except when she threw me out for a few days, which really needed to be done lest something really bad happen), and squeezed what little joy she could from the summer of her dreams. And because of me there was very little joy.

Today I’m back to work, my doctor has worked out the mix of meds I need right now to stay sane, and Niki and I haven’t been buried by unbearable friction in weeks. This episode just may have ended, and love made that end and whatever new beginning we may find possible.

Still, there’s no justice in loving someone with bipolar disorder. I’m an expert at faking being well and presenting a front of grace and charisma to everyone except the people at home, my wife and daughter, who see the real me. The destruction, the ugliness, the pain. Oh, it’s not all bad. Niki is too smart, promising and confident to stick around if that were the case. There is enough good, enough love, to go on together. But in that journey others, especially my family, on hearing of difficulty at home assume Niki’s the bad guy, exalt me to some place I don’t belong, and blame her for everything.

Their insistence that I’m ok and can do no wrong hides the truth that Niki is the real anchor in this marriage. The real source of love, and the real glue that keeps us from coming apart. They never see or acknowledge her suffering, because they’re too busy blaming her for anything that goes wrong.

But I think this year maybe they get it. I’ve been terrible, and she’s been steadfast. It is no exaggeration to say with all honesty that this year my life would not have been possible without Niki’s love. I mean it. I wouldn’t be here. I always swore that I wouldn’t be dependent on somebody else for a reason to live, but this year I was. The thanks she gets is stress like she hasn’t had to deal with before and responsibility that goes way beyond the for better or for worse we swore in our wedding vows. We’ll stay together. We have love. Perhaps even more of it now than a few months ago. Or a few years ago.

My father notices a lot of things. He always seems to sense when my mood is eroding and his calls always seem to come at the right time. A few days ago when I was so bad I could just crawl in bed and think about dying he called. Niki answered and told him I was sleeping, which I was, and that she’d tell me he called when I woke up. Then something happened that never happened in our family before. He sincerely asked her, “How are you?” And she cried. And that love felt a little more solid.

So at the tail end of one of the worst episodes of bipolar disorder I’ve ever had to deal with maybe I am privileged. I have Niki, my wife. To her I say thank you. And to everyone else I can say for sure love is out there. I’m fortunate to find it with my wife, but if you’re not in a healthy relationship you can find it with a peer, or a support group, or a family member, a friend or a pastor. Don’t be afraid that because bipolar disorder makes you so difficult and so inconsistent that you don’t deserve it. You do.

You do deserve love.

If you suffer from anxiety try my first book, Handling Anxiety in a Time of Crisis. It’s helpful, relevant, and only costs ten bucks.