Christen began to explain her bipolar condition from a more clinical standpoint, first. She was right, I’d totally oversimpli-fied it. She described five basic mood zones; the middle one being what we would consider normal. Two zones above nor-mal representing varied stages of mania, the first one mild to moderate, and the second stage would be considered severe. The last two mood zones would be drawn on a line below nor-mal, and represented two varied stages of depression. The first zone being mild to moderate, and the second zone repre-senting severe depression. In a repentant tone she whispered, "But yes, you're right, my highs are higher, and my lows are lower. I'm sorry I snapped at you."
She gave me a website to look up when we got back to the house. She felt it had some fairly decent information related
to bipolar symptoms but added, “Just reading about it isn’t
the same as living with someone who has it. Bipolar depres-sion isn’t like regular depression. I’ve battled major depres-sion since I was a teenager. I’ve never encountered any-thing like bipolar depression; it’s debilitating. One of the worst things about it, is that my doctor can’t just increase
my antidepressant until it snaps me out of it. Too high a
dose of an antidepressant can trigger a manic episode. It’s
a vicious cycle. It’s a deeper depression than anything I ever experienced with regular depression and like I said, I’ve battled major depression for years.”
to bipolar symptoms but added, “Just reading about it isn’t
the same as living with someone who has it. Bipolar depres-sion isn’t like regular depression. I’ve battled major depres-sion since I was a teenager. I’ve never encountered any-thing like bipolar depression; it’s debilitating. One of the worst things about it, is that my doctor can’t just increase
my antidepressant until it snaps me out of it. Too high a
dose of an antidepressant can trigger a manic episode. It’s
a vicious cycle. It’s a deeper depression than anything I ever experienced with regular depression and like I said, I’ve battled major depression for years.”
Christen began to share some of her personal experiences with bipolar depression. She said it hit her so hard one time, she spent six months on the couch under her yellow comforter. Her voice became strained and tears streamed down her face as she shared the intimate details of that dark time in her life. With every word she spoke, I could feel the depth of shame shrouding her secret. Weeks without bathing, speaking, or eating. The hours spent sobbing uncontrollably, pleading with God that if He truly cared, her eyes wouldn’t see the morning. As if I were her priest, she confessed contemplating suicide to the point of checking to see if any combination of her medica-tions might end her nightmare. Sharing in humiliation how she’d written each of her children a letter during that time, telling them she could no longer go on.
She told me that medications she never should have been taking, exacerbated her depression, compounded the suicidal ideations, and had her so doped up she really didn’t realize everything she was doing. Even so, I could sense her lack of self-forgiveness. There was no convincing her she hadn’t traumatized her children. She would receive no absolution.
My heart heavy to free her from the unfounded guilt, I sug-gested that surely her kids were old enough to understand. In a feeble attempt to comfort her I stammered, “It wasn’t
you, it was the meds.”
My heart heavy to free her from the unfounded guilt, I sug-gested that surely her kids were old enough to understand. In a feeble attempt to comfort her I stammered, “It wasn’t
you, it was the meds.”
Carefully brushing tears away from what remained of her eyeliner, Christen riffled through the purse and pulled out another cigarette. She took a drink of her diet coke, put the cigarette to her lips and lit it; still too bizarre a sight to com-prehend. Cracking the window again, quite matter of factly Christen said, “It may have been the meds on THIS end, but
on THAT end, it was their mom, and it’s not something they'll forget. It’s not something they let YOU forget. I don’t think they really understand. They just know they got a letter
from their mother telling them she couldn’t make it through another day. They’ve never forgiven me for that; never looked at me the same. Not that I can blame them.”
on THAT end, it was their mom, and it’s not something they'll forget. It’s not something they let YOU forget. I don’t think they really understand. They just know they got a letter
from their mother telling them she couldn’t make it through another day. They’ve never forgiven me for that; never looked at me the same. Not that I can blame them.”
Her eyes welled up with tears again. In a way I was glad, perhaps she wouldn’t notice the tears in mine. I’d known Christen for several years. She was divorced and had raised her two children alone. I knew she loved those kids more than life itself. There would be nothing I could say to ease the pain I saw etched in her face. She would forgive herself the humilia-tion and shame she felt for everything she had shared with me that day, all but what she believed had hurt her children.
I was beginning to understand why the symptom lists and arrow charts were so meaningless to Christen. I would search the website when we got home and sure, it mentioned the need to have support from the families of a person who’s bipolar. But there was nothing anywhere to prepare me for what I saw in my friend’s eyes, heard in her voice; could feel in the break-ing of her heart.
We made the rest of the trip without talking; only the music on the radio to ease the sadness that permeated the atmosphere. Usually silence would have bothered me, but it came as a cool-ing salve on scalded flesh. With my head rested against the window, my thoughts searched the depths of all my friend had shared.
Join us next week for Part IV of Christen's Story
No comments:
Post a Comment