I’ve had three brushes with mental illness in my life (so far). Two of them affected significant others and one affected me.
Mrs. Hornibastard #1 started getting weird towards the end of our relationship. At the time, her problem was not recognized by anyone (including me) as an early sign of mental illness. Her behavior was not bad or odd enough to be considered anything other than poor judgment. But a few years after our divorce she took a very noticeable turn for the worse and was eventually diagnosed as suffering from bipolar disorder.
About five years after our divorce my ex’s younger sister contacted me to warn that my ex-wife might try to contact me. She pleaded with me to be tolerant and gentle with her because she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and sometimes got pretty strange.
Mrs. Hornibastard #1 did eventually contact me by email. Her problems were stark but inconsistent. She could sometimes write sensible, cogent emails. Sometimes her lengthy, disjointed diatribes seemed to have been authored by the Unabomber.
She eventually had to go on disability from her work (she had become an attorney just before we divorced). She still writes occasionally. Her correspondence occasionally makes sense. But sometimes it borders on gibberish.
During one of my single episodes, I dated a young woman we will call Tracey (not her real name). I only dated her twice and lost interest. She seemed normal enough on our dates. But soon afterwards when I returned home late at night after a date with someone else, I would find a large grocery bag (paper) on my driveway. It contained a fully cooked dinner.
At first I had no idea who put it there. Eventually Tracey called and asked me if I had enjoyed dinner. I explained that she shouldn’t go to the trouble of leaving dinner for me. I could just be out for the evening or I could be on a month long business trip to Asia. Even if I was just out for the evening, I would not eat a meal that had been sitting out on the driveway in Houston’s heat and humidity for who knows how long out of fear of getting food poisoning.
Despite my advice, Tracey continued occasionally leaving dinner on my driveway for me.
Later Tracey started calling me on the phone and we had some memorably bizarre conversations.
“Hi, it’s me, Tracey!”
“What’s up, Tracey?” I tried to conceal my annoyance that she was still calling me.
“What do you think sounds better: Louise Mary Donna Felicity Sue Katherine Aimee Frances Lucinda or Margaret Helen Peggy Elizabeth Agnes Polly Samantha Cecilia?”
“I don’t get it. Why are you asking me this?”
“Just tell me which one you think sounds better, Louise Mary Donna Felicity Sue Katherine Aimee Frances Lucinda or Margaret Helen Peggy Elizabeth Agnes Polly Samantha Cecilia?”
“OK, OK. I think the first one sounds better.”
“Yeah! I thought so too. Thanks!”
Then she’d hang up.
I got lots of calls like that from Tracey.
Then the strange calls finally stopped.
About a year and a half later Tracey called again. She apologized for all the strange calls. She was calling from a mental hospital but said she was feeling better and might be released within a month.
I felt badly for her. I told her apologies were unnecessary and wished her a full and speedy recovery.
My third brush with mental illness was my own. Almost twenty years ago I went through a very intense phase in my career. For about 18 months, if I was awake I was working - almost nonstop 7 days a week. I enjoyed my work and there was some exhilaration at being such a superstar at the office. But the stress eventually took its toll. I became lethargic. At times I didn’t give a shit about work or anything anymore. I thought I was just burned out from working so hard. But a few hours later, I was again bursting with energy and enthusiasm. I felt like I could catch bullets in my teeth. Then a few hours later I was again down in the dumps, lacking energy or desire, even for the things that would have normally motivated me.
At the depths of this period, I started thinking that dying might be an effective stress reduction strategy. I never found myself on top of the office building planning to jump, but it certainly got my attention that I was even having these thoughts at all.
I saw my long time doctor-friend. After I told her my symptoms she asked a few questions about my lifestyle and then hit me playfully on the head with her clipboard.
“Fool! You’ve worked yourself into clinical depression!”
She prescribed some happy pills. (I forgot what they were called but they worked.) She instructed me to take them for 6 months and to change my lifestyle, my work habits and to reinstate my exercise regimen.
I took the pills, restored a semblance of balance to my life and never suffered those symptoms again.
When people come down with the flu, bronchitis, psoriasis or pancreatic cancer we don’t blame them. But when people suffer from mental illness we often see it as a personal flaw or failing.
