The mania raged non-stop for six straight months, a relentless euphoria. Decisions, if you could call them that, were made on a dime. Push the envelope and dodge the shrapnel. I was invincible. No kill switch and no boundaries, blurting whatever raced through my ticker-tape brain. I was in orbit, spinning into the abyss and everybody knew it, except me of course. When the mania kicks in, you’re just along for the ride.
I was in the moment, the toast of the town, on top of my game and nothing was beyond my grasp. Anything and everything was there for the taking. I wanted it all and I knew how to get it. Watch me work. I was the smartest, cockiest, wittiest, sexiest, most charming mofo in the room. Any room. Looking back on it now, I was a punch-line.
More bourbon, more weed, more whatever ya got and “Hey man, who’s that little red head over by the jukebox?” My temper was hair-trigger and if somebody got popped in the mouth, it was all in a night’s work. It was all about the action and life was a bowl of goddamn cherries.
Seventeen thousand miles later I’d blown 12 grand, lost my girlfriend, been fired from my 10-year gig as a writer for a racing magazine and gotten banned from a racetrack that had been my second home since 1972. In August I crashed my motorcycle and burned the hell out of my leg. Two days later, I blew up the engine. The good times kept right on rolling. By summer’s end, I’d been hit with two disorderly conducts, acquired more than $600 in traffic tickets, gotten tossed out of countless bars, spent nearly $3000 on a record that may never be released, slapped a club owner, gained 15 pounds and managed to lose both of my bands and most of my friends. My life was in shambles but I still didn’t see it.
My third manic episode in just seven years and exactly like the experts tell you, bipolar disease only gets worse with age. The cycles come closer together and increase in severity. Despite the danger, the onset of mania is a welcome reprieve from the black hole of the soul crushing depression. You think you’ve got the world by the nads and nothing can stop you. Never mind that it’s all a cruel illusion. The statistics speak for themselves. If left untreated, more than 20 percent of manic-depressives kill themselves and thousands more end up in prison. Happy endings are rare.
Six months of hard living had taken its toll on my health. I’m too old to withstand this kind of sustained physical abuse. My stomach burned constantly and I developed a sinus infection and a death rattle cough that lasted for over a month. I was throwing up blood almost every morning and had to endure a painful periodontal surgery that took six weeks to heal. I couldn’t get through a day without Advil and Rolaids by the fistful. I was a medical mess.
If you had the misfortune of crossing my path between last April and September, I more than likely pissed you off, scared you, insulted you, offended you or repulsed you. At least you could avoid me, block me on Facebook, not take my calls or throw me away altogether. I can’t say I blame you. The many people I’ve wronged don’t care why. You can’t expect to get a pass just because you happen to be in the clutches of an illness that you have no control over, but I still wasn’t quite ready to admit that treatment was the only option I had left.
When the inevitable crash hits, somehow it always sneaks up on you. You know what’s coming but you’re never quite ready for it. The reversal is all but instantaneous; you simply shut down. Fun-time is over until all I could see was the wreckage. The grayness surrounds you, pressing in from all sides, a bolt from the blue freefall into the darkest depths of hopelessness and despair. The word “depression” doesn’t even begin to do it justice. It’s far worse than that. Life is stripped of all meaning and beauty and simple daily tasks become insurmountable. You’re all used up, eaten alive by guilt, fatigue and anxiety. Self-esteem nosedives and you retreat into a world of sleep, isolation and television. When you take inventory and question whether there’s anything left to live for, you’re pretty sure there isn’t. Inside, I was already dead.
So now what? In mid-March, I started seeing a psychologist and to no one’s surprise, including my own, I was classified as a bipolar I, a severe case. I quit drinking, stopped smoking dope and reluctantly put my fate in the hands of medical science. Nobody wants to be defined by their illness but at least I’d finally accepted that the time had come to own up to it. Finding the proper combination of meds is an educated guess at best, a constantly moving target. It’s a process and you can forget about miracle cures. No matter how strong your resolve, manic-depression can’t be willed away.
It’s hell to admit it, but it’s a war you can’t win. At 57, I’m starting from scratch. For the rest of my life, I’m stuck with taking ever-changing doses of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers to save me from myself.
To be continued….
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