Welcome to the Bipolar Reading Room!

This return-to-oneself, resipiscence, 'rebirth,' is an infinitely dramatic and moving event, especially in a patient with a rich and full self, who has been dispossessed by disease for years or decades... Furthermore, it shows us, with wonderful clarity, the dynamic relation of sickness to health, of a 'false self' to the real self, of a disease-world to an optimum-world. The automatic return of real being and health, pari passu with the drainage of disease, shows that disease is not a thing-in-itself, but parasitic on health and life and reality: an ontological ghoul, living on and consuming the grounds of the real self. It shows the dynamic and implacable nature of our 'internal militia'; how opposed forms of being fight to possess us, to dispossess each other, and to perpetuate themselves.

- Dr. Oliver Sacks, Awakenings

A note from Sister Leslie:
Dr. Sacks' fine book is about post-encephalitic patients and their response to the so-called 'miracle drug,' L-DOPA. He often uses the term 'bipolar' to describe their stormy reactions to L-DOPA, and it brings to mind the situation with lithium.
Once touted as a 'miracle drug,' lithium is fraught with side effects and titration of the drug depends upon individual reaction to it. Dr. Sack's musings about the ontological ramifications of disease echo an issue we are aware of in our own individual experiences of Bipolar Disorder.

Madness. I always believed is was this thing-this monster which crept up slowly, silently, attacking from behind, leaving one no recourse but to run naked and screaming through the streets. Panting, legs moving slower, slower as fatigue sets in, eyes wide, mouth wet with spit. Truly insane in appearance. And all the people would glance your way while passing, quickening their step and shaking their heads in pity. "Such a shame," they mutter beneath their breath like a mantra, a prayer to ward off that which offends and frightens them.

Functional madness. I could hide it, keep it under wraps. I consoled myself with the belief that I possessed a special sensitivity to the world around me. Sounds, smells, tastes, expressions, hits, words, pain, joy. I am like a sieve as it all pours through my being, each grain passing through - so slowly. My mind, working overtime, tries to understand, figure it all out, processing this jumble of stimuli. I am still while this happens because I am so tired. My mind silently pleads for respite.

Silently - until the wine ceases numbing, the smoke stops easing my thoughts, the drugs the doctors give me leave me shivering like a child on the floor, vomiting and gasping for air. Then I begin to scream. Begging without shame, without pride to anyone who will listen,

"Let me off this terrible ride!"

Without shame. Without pride. Without hope. No one is there.

The next morning, I feel fine. "Perhaps we should go out for breakfast," I say to him, the boyfriend. "Let's go get a really good cup of Colombian coffee, shall we?" Mmmm. My spirits are up. So off we'd go. And I chatter, chatter, chatter about this and that and the other. Chatter, chatter. And he listens, quietly, as if anything I say really means anything. As if it makes any sense at all. As if last night did not happen, me on the floor in a fetal position, choking, rubbing my head and chanting over and over and over, "It'll be O.K., Shannon. You'll be O.K. It'll pass. It always passes."

Maybe he wasn't listening at all. This thought stops me. My mind freezes with the thought, focusing in tight, like the lens of a camera. I look at him suspiciously. No, I don't think he is listening. I should test him. Ah, but what does it matter? What is love anyway? It too will fade away and pass, then return again in another form. Around and around, up and down. It all passes through me. Why not him as well?

Ow. My head hurts. Hadn't noticed before, but pain in one form or another is a constant presence. Slight pressure all around my cranium, thick fingers squeezing uncomfortably. And with my drug level tolerance, hah! Excedrin? Motrin? Nothing. Tylenol...oh! But be careful of Tylenol. I heard that mixed with alcohol it can cause liver failure and I must have my drink. "No Tylenol," I remind myself.

Am I...do you think...well could I have a problem with alcohol? NO! I drink because I appreciate wine, the tastes, the tannins, the body and aroma....Fuck this. I don't need to justify myself to anyone. Who is this sitting beside me? You're not even listening. Damn this headache!

Suddenly I'm not feeling well. Not feeling well. Years have past like moments. And in many of them, I have not felt...well.

"Blah, blah," I say to the my deaf, mute passing love interest as he drives me towards home. His face is tense. He's wound up tight. Nervous. Perhaps I should lay down when I get there. My bed. My wonderful, warm bed. But, God! It's only 10:30 in the morning and I haven't done anything all day! I haven't written a thing, completed nothing...Jesus! I have so much to do! God, I forgot to call my sister and the letter wasn't sent to the loan company and my agent...I'm so lazy. What a waste, why even try.

Home again. Damn this headache! Damn! The house feels small, cramped, like a cell. I can't fill my lungs with air. The fingers tighten.

It takes awhile, you know. I've never tried to time it or anything. A stopwatch is the last thing I can focus on when it begins. But there are triggers, pulled from the shadows of the dark, leaving behind a deafening echo of disaster.

And she's off! The feeling of doom is impending. I begin to spiral, caught in a whirlpool - a draining sink. Going down, down into the slimy, dark and cold piping, down, down. I can not grasp for anyone or anything because my hands are tied, you see. I can't move them. My tongue is mute. The shaking begins. "Where is he? The boyfriend? I must look such a mess, such a spectacle. Just like my mother..."

Pat, pat. I gently begin to rock myself and rub my head, murmuring. "It's O.K., Shannon. It will pass." I can't breath. "Breath! B-R-E-A-T-H!" I am twelve again, a desperate child in need. Where is he? Somebody help me! I want this to stop. Die.

"I don't want to die. I just want out of this body!"

Is he here? Is he talking to me? I am deaf. Silence. It is passing. Passing. My breathing slows. Oh, but it will come again. And again and again and again....

The void begins seeping through me, black as ink. No hope. No will. I think of sleeping forever. I think of death. I think of God. Where have you gone? Will you take me into your arms, if you exist? Will you hold me and carry me away from all of this? Surely a just God would understand, if there is a God. Death. Even if there were nothing, that would be divine. Simply to cease to exist. Ah, such thoughts cradle me with warmth-

I already know how I will do it. Not like before. Not enough pills. I would do it in the garage, if I had a garage. Never with a gun and jumping from a high place? Yick! No, this time with the right pills and a good open vein. This scares me. I am afraid of the pain. I inventory the pills in my house. One bottle of Darvocet, half a bottle hydrocodone, expired. It will do. Motrin, Klonapin and a bottle of wine. I take the blade from the tip of the exacto knife - careful - in the red tool box and carry it gingerly to the bathroom. It sounds a light chime as I lie it down on the porcelain sink. It glistens, catches my eye-my fancy. This should do it.

I am not afraid of death but their is something in me that still wills to live. It is a small, flickering light. I can hardly see it now, even though I'm squinting hard. It no longer provides me any comfort. Escape. I am prideful in my lack of fear of death. I know that there are those in the world who suffer greater indignities than my own and yet they persevere. But I am weak. Humanities sieve, you see. I feel all their pain. I am mad.

I look into my bathroom mirror and my image is clouded, as if I am almost invisible, ghost like. I begin to cry, though I don't know why. I place a pill in my mouth and swallow. Then another and another and another. I cry harder. "Please let there be a just God! Forgive me! Understand." No answer. I swallow the wine. Then another pill and another....holding back the urge to vomit. I pick up the blade, shaking so violently. Look at my hands! The light grows dim, then dark.

I am in a car going very fast. The boyfriend is beside me. He is saying something, but I can't make out the words. All goes black.

I am in a beautiful golden field, floating. So pretty. So warm, then CRASH! I feel my body convulse and shake. Cold steel! My back is so cold. I'm so cold.

"Where am I?" I scream. I'm choking. Something is in my throat. I feel the rustle of cloth and air around me, rushing past. Words, bright lights, so cold.

Hospital.

"You Fuckers! NOOOOO! This is my life! MY body! You have no right! No right!"

A sharp pain in my arm and all is black again. Then someone gently touches me. Where on my body I cannot discern. Just the faint impression of being nudged. I open my eyes. Above me stands a fair skinned man with the most beautiful green eyes. I love his eyes. I allow myself to fall into them, like diving into a cool, smooth pool.

"Shannon? You truly intended to kill yourself, didn't you? To die?"

"Yes," I answer meekly. "Because I am mad." He scribbles something on a pad of paper he carries with him, then looks up and smiles.

"We're going to take you somewhere where you can get help, O.K.?"

I wonder who "we" is and nod weakly. Everything is sore, like I've been squeezed through a rusty metal tube. The man with the beautiful green eyes disappears, leaving me cold and shaking. I'm so tired. Weary, really, and I close my eyes and fall into a deep, dreamless, black sleep. The kind of sleep I love so dearly that I would give my life for it.

I fell into that blissful slumber a mad woman and awoke...diagnosed.

"Bi-polar disorder," the psychiatrist says, handing me sheets of asbestos yellow paper. "Manic-depressive, you've heard of it?" I nod. Well, what should I think of that? What can I say? I take the papers and lay them limply in my lap. I listen.

Madness. I now understand with perfect clarity that it is not a monster nor that frightening, indefinable bump in the night. It has a name, my recent diagnosis. It never crept up from behind me but from inside me, for it is a part of me. Of who I am. I am Shannon Downs and I am bipolar. Bipolar. "This will be the last time," I think resolutely. I have named the madness. And I will tame it. I want to live.

I feel the rush of the forced breeze from a bellow stoking a fire inside my mind. It is warm. It comforts me.

This is a letter written by my late maternal grandmother 85 years ago. It was found, unmailed, in the effects of an uncle, her eldest son, when he was committed to a nursing home. Depression runs in my mother's family, and this is a poignant snapshot of how my grandmother was affected. She was a simple farmwife with nothing but her primitive Baptist faith to rely on. I have edited out all names and places, so you are free to publish it. * * * * * * * *

						-------,NC
						Oct. 21, 1921

Dear Mother and Father,
	Hope you returned home safe from the association.  We reached home 
o.k.  I have studied a lot about what you and mama said to me.  Wonder 
who could have told they wer looking for me at ----.  Hope I havenąt 
said or done anything to deceive those good people.  For at times I 
fear I am deceived and feel like my feelings has all been of the flesh 
and that my sickness caused to feel like I have, Being low down in 
health.  
	Ever since mama was down here I have had a heavy burden on me.  Would 
study so hard at times it look like I would lose mind.  Would try to 
throw it off but couldnąt.  I couldnąt tell where I was sick enough to 
have a doctor or not.  Yet I craved to go to see him but didnąt want 
anyone to know when I went, but knew E--- would have to carry me.  One 
day he asked me to go.  I said łalright˛.  I trembled with fear & felt 
like if I left home I would die before I could get back.  I ask the 
Lord to be with me and I believe he was for I went and got along 
alright and felt relieved of some of my troubles.  I would have a 
great desire to tak to him before I would go, but when I got there 
could only say, łSome days I feel very well and some I donąt,˛ or 
would tell him where I hurt.  Do you think itmy duty to go and talk to 
him?  I donąt want to burden anyone with troubles and hope this will 
not burden any of you. All summer I have felt cast down, throwed away.  
No one cared for me and that I didnąt have a friend anywhere.  I would 
think going to see my neigbors but I didnąt feel like they wanted 
tosee me.  Went to see L--- on morning. She said to me, łWhat is the 
matter with you?  Why do you look so sad?˛  I bursted out crying and 
said, ł I donąt have a friend.  No one cares for me.˛  She says, łI 
think a lot of you,˛  I felt a little relieved.  Felt like if someone 
would sit down and talk encouraging to me, I would feel better.  Most 
of the time I didnąt feel fit to be in company.  My sins were so great 
before me.  I was afreaid to speak or do anything. Afraid it wouldnąt 
...[bottom three line of page torn away in original]...be right.  I 
had a great desire to live right and everthing I did seemed to be 
wrong.  I got to where I didnąt know what to do.  Would get worried & 
say things I would hate.  I got where I thought I was going to die.  
When that feeling came over me I could do nothing but cry.  The 
thought of dying and leaving my children was almost more than I could 
bear.  When I wasnąt crying I was choked and couldnąt cry, grieving 
myself to death.  I craved to hear preaching.  Went to ----- and not 
one word could I hear and found no relief.  The next Saturday went to 
------.  Mr. B----ąs text was (Yea for thy sake we are killed all the 
day long.)  That seem to hit me.  I hadnąt thought of it in that way 
but knew I had been killed in my feelings when he spoke those words.
	Have heard of people feasting on a sermon but didnąt know the 
pleasure of it.  I have feasted on that one till now.  Didnąt care 
about going the next day.  I was full.
	You ask me that week I stayed up there to tell my experience.  I felt 
like I didnąt have any I wanted to be alone.  Didnąt want to talk.  
Felt like a burden to you all.  The most pleasure I saw was the few 
moments we spent chopping corn or when I was reading the landmark.  
Sure have enjoyed reading them.  I would think to myself, I will talk 
to papa.  When I got where you were, not one word did I have to say.  
It seemed you have wanted to be with me more the last few times I was 
up there.  I had no thought of crying when I went with mama to the 
buggy.  Was going to leave you looking cheerful.  When you and mama 
said what you did I could do nothing but cry.  E---- asked me what was 
the matter.  I told him nothing. I went back and heard a little more 
preaching.  Now you can be judge of what I have written as to whether 
I have felt like this because I was sick or what caused it.  Mr. B---- 
said, łSometimes afflictions are put on us to bring us down.˛  Mama 
said, łthe same last Sunday.˛  I felt to be the least among the crowd.  
Sometimes I feel a little lifted up, but have been more in the valley 
since June than anywhere else.  If I was with you tonight, guess I 
could say more.  I will stop where I am but for fear some one beign 
deceived you can this and lay it aside if you think best.  I want to 
do right as far as I know.
	Have been thinking of writing you all the week.  Now I have made the 
attempt.  There is a fear on me now.  J---ąs boy has diptheria.  Was 
taken bad off Thursday night.  My children were with him that day.  He 
is very bad off today.  I am haoping my children will escape having 
it.  Though we cannot help what is put on us.  I desire your prayers 
for us. Write and come when you can.  

						Your loving daughter,
								D----

Thank you so much! You can choose what to put in "Bipolar Planet" and I hope it's all copyrighted automatically.

     I got locked up because of my refusal to take medications brought 
me over the edge.
     I always said it would never happen to me.  To be the woman left 
alone, pacing and talking to herself, within my own paradigm shift of 
reality.  Chonically and painfully mentally ill and people always 
turned their heads away.  It did happen to me.. again, but I forgot 
how lethal my didease is, and this time it nearly killed me.

(During my last episode I "turned into" Janis Joplin but still talked 
about myself in third person)
     Dramatic displays of confusion.  No one can get enough but it is 
so intense it makes everyone exausted while they are trapped in her 
exited trance.  Cats(men) begging her silently to calm down 
Angels(women) felling not nearly groovy or worthy enough for her love.  
Way to fucking high up there famous holy like Jesus.  Tough lover 
choosing to suffer affliction hiding guilt, embarassment and shame 
pleading her silently to take care of herself.
     Harder faster shaking with energy, Cum-mon fuck through the 
music.  Desperate and vulnerable, yet so overwhelmingly powerful...

     My Angels whisper to me such beautiful words.
     They all gather about me and I listen in
     My angels glow with a savage sort of beauty.
     Their passionate glares stop time.
     Where are you my precious Angel?
     Your essence reveals silent ecstasy  
     Whenever you are near.
     At first different Angels appeared in my dreams.
     Always gazing at me with a knowing, magical look,
     Then dissappear.
     I feel whole, at peace with you.
     I wish I could touch you.
     When I am awake, you appear
     With your long golden hair
     Almost like my dreams
     I cannot caress your glorios body or speak to you
     Because you are always busy going your own way.
     When our eyes meet do you feel
     The love that I do?
     Or is it just an illusion
     That mirriors from the core of our souls?
     A fantasy I can never quite reach
     Is there one out there for me
     To love, kiss and to hold?
     I need your compassion
     To break through all the daily barriers
     And my fears and lonliness
     Can disappear.