ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART I

The door opened wide enough for me to barely squeeze inside.  Before I’d altogether stepped into the entryway, it was closing; I quickly darted out of the way. “Hey Christen, how’s it goin'?"  I thought a cheerful greeting might cut through the eerie si-lence permeating the atmosphere.  It didn't.  Without a word, my hostess disappeared back into the living room. She climbed beneath the slightly worn yellow comforter she’d taken refuge under since mid-afternoon the day before, as she would later tell me.  While settling back in, Christin fluffed her pillow and propped her head slightly in my direction.  She softly replied, “I don’t feel very good today.”

I offered the apologies appropriate under such circumstances, and asked Christen if she would prefer we do this another time. After expelling one of the largest sighs I’ve ever heard, she responded, “No, you may as well see this, too”.  I made myself comfortable.  Well, as comfortable as you can be when you’re really uncomfortable.

It was the first time I’d seen Christen like "this", as she’d put it.  To be honest, she was scarcely recognizable.  Hardly the put together, gregarious woman I was accustomed to.  Christen is the kind of person who lights up the room.  It’s not that she’s drop-dead gorgeous but not “altogether unfortunate looking”, to steal a line from Legally Blonde.  She’s what I’d call fashion forward, and usually comes off looking pretty sharp.  There’s just something about her.  She’s captivating, in a sense.  Hilar-iously funny, and at the same time serious and sensitive. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve just always loved being around her.  Somehow, she leaves me feeling better about myself.  I sat in my chair looking at this shell of a person, apathetic and des-pondent.  I wondered how this imposter could possibly be Christen. 

Suddenly I came to myself.  How long had I been sitting there lost in these thoughts associated with my shock?  Had I con-cealed my reaction, or was my mouth hanging open as I stared in disbelief at this stranger burrowed into the couch?  Lord, please don’t let what’s going through my mind be flashing across my face.  

Breaking my paralyzing silence, Christen spoke up and said, “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?  I’m ashamed to admit this is where
I am the majority of the time.  Does that surprise you?  Well, don’t just sit there, go ahead and ask your questions.  You'll never learn anything just sitting there staring at me.”

I was so embarrassed I could have melted into the chair.  Did she actually know what I’d been thinking?  Was she assuming what my thoughts were based on her own fears and insecur-ities, or had there been past experiences?  Did it matter?  Either way, she had me dead-to-rights.  

“I’m sorry, Christen."  I felt like an idiot.  "I’ve just never seen you like this, it caught me off guard".  It was readily apparent, if I was to write something about being bipolar [that would help anyone], there was a lot I needed to learn.  "Why don't you tell me what’s going on.  I’m not even sure what questions to ask right now.”

I realized my interviews with Christen could never effectively be in a question and answer format.  No, it was obvious to me that Christen needed to talk, and I needed to listen.  So that’s what we did, for hours; for days.  Christen talked, and I listened.

I listened, and I wrote…


Join us next week for Part II of Christen's Story