Retrospective, Part 11: The Blue Period

I’d reached my manic pinnacle somewhere during the 2-months between my mom’s death and my marriage to J, a period characterized by deranged thoughts and bizarre actions. During our honeymoon, I gradually edged back into a hypomanic state: I was still hypersexual, euphoric, and unreasonably confident, but the psychotic episodes had mercifully ended. By the time we reached home 35 days later, I was pretty much a wrung-out version of my former self.

Without the red filter, I became increasingly aware of my mortal limitations and human frailties. An eagle is a glorious thing when it’s soaring overhead, rising and spinning on the wind. Confined in a steel cage, its tail limp and its wings folded uselessly against its sides, the eagle must wonder how such glory could so easily be humbled. Life without mania seemed bland and pointless; having experienced godliness, how could I again settle for mundanity? The loss of my power (whether delusional or real) was like the loss of the true me--the fearless, powerful shaman who communed with gods, aliens, and nature and had single-handedly thwarted evil with his magical talismans.

Compounding my mental and emotional distress was the realization that I--mortal once more--must now face the economic, social, and psychological consequences of my manic period: the frivolous purchases that now baffled and disturbed me, the bills that were quickly stacking up, my empty bank account, the friends who eyed me warily, my damaged reputation in the English department. It was as if the world itself had been stripped of its magic: the apartment seemed so small and plain, the town so sterile and ugly, the horizons so suffocating near. Trains were just trains, people just people. The angels had fled and left me to wrestle with memories of a faded glory and fear of an approaching doom.

Within two weeks of our return, I had become increasingly despondent and lethargic, afraid to leave the apartment and face the real world. My confidence plummeted to depths equal to the heights I had known while manic. I froze at the slightest challenge: washing the car, cooking a meal, making love, getting dressed. I couldn’t read or carry on a conversation or sleep due to the voices of doom that now occupied my head, condemning me day and night. I was obsessed with images of myself living in a cardboard box under a bridge, deserted and destitute.

My days were marginally bearable, for J stayed close and did her very best to break the black spell that was rapidly consuming me. But alone in the quiet hours of the night, I paced the floor and cursed my existence. My fears, magnified by the chemical imbalance terrorizing my brain, coalesced into a single horrific mantra that looped endlessly through my mind. Nothing could break the cycle, except unconsciousness.

I still remember that deep-blue night vividly; the vision of my exhausted and pathetic self crashing in flames will haunt me for the rest of my days. It was about 4 a.m., and I was pacing downstairs, whimpering and tearing at my skin and hair while J, exhausted, slept fitfully in the loft above. I had by then worn a circular track in the carpet, my thoughts and actions now a cycle of unbroken despair. I felt like I was at the brink of the abyss, circling nearer and neared the inevitable plunge into oblivion, yet I couldn’t stop, couldn’t save myself from myself. I was falling, falling like a dead bird.

I came to when my chin hit the coffee table. Lea, awakened by the crash, ran downstairs to my side and helped me to my feet and onto the couch. Until that moment, I had never blacked out in my entire life. Dazed and in pain, I could barely speak. I cried and clutched J tightly while she rocked me in her arms. At daybreak, she drove me to the emergency room.

Within 10 minutes of entering the examination room and hearing a brief history, the doctor announced that I was suffering from bipolar disorder, a mental illness that would require daily medication for the rest of my life. I can still see myself as if looking down from the ceiling: crumpled in the corner of the room, devastated by a diagnosis I couldn’t bear to hear, and wailing over the death of who I had been. From that day forward, I would carry the stigma of my illness around my neck like an albatross. We left the hospital with a prescription for lithium carbonate and an appointment with an HMO psychiatrist the following day.

Unable to face my teaching responsibilities, I asked to be transferred to the department’s writing lab where I avoided contact with people as much as I could. I was emotionally erratic and would cry over a minor difficulty, an unkind look, a sudden memory. I had no concept of the nightmare that J was living; she always showed me her brave face, knowing that her fears would only drive me deeper into despair. For over two months, she had followed me through my private heaven and my private hell, shoring me up and gently assuring me. (“Ba-a-a-by. Baby! Everything’s going to be just fine.”) With me “gone,” J had no best friend to confide it, and pride kept her from turning to her family or to counseling. The universe had placed a tremendous burden on her shoulders, and that burden had a terrible burden of his own.

Weeks flowed into months and months became years, and my illness stabilized through medication, psychotherapy, and J’s steadfast presence in my life. I was offered an editing internship at a local company and was promoted to full-time editor within 6 months, to senior technical editor within 9. J graduated with an MA and eventually took a job as a production editor at a company a mere two blocks from mine. We lunched almost every day in a nearby park, reading Pooh stories to one another and tossing leftover sandwiches to the ducks. We had started over, but neither of us forgot how we had begun. Beneath the laughter and the intimacy were deep and jagged fissures that held secret fears and unspeakable resentments.

For now, though, we were rosy cheeked and optimistic. It was a time in our marriage for celebrating the strength of our union and capitalizing on lessons learned, to build a future filled with happiness and success. The money was rolling in, the bills were paid, and we had made new friends--friends who didn’t know. We worked out together, made love often and vigorously, and went camping regularly. To all who knew us, we were love incarnate. We had become what other married couples aspired to be.


After some discussion, J and I decided that we were ready for a baby. We went to the city shelter where we found Benjamin, patiently waiting; he knew we would come. So young and strong and spunky! He was the most handsome cat we’d ever seen! As J bent down to say hello, he reached through the wire and gently cupped her face with his paws. We spirited him home at once.

Benjamin became the center of our brave new world. He was our baby, our little lump of joy.