…It was the beginning of hell. Everything fell apart, but I finally went home to be with my parents, who saved me. I cannot imagine the pain of being Christina, trying desperately to get home, knowing that was safety, and not being able to get there. The frenetic phone calls to friends and family; the desperation of a mind clouded by odd thoughts and noise. She wanted to be well, like I did, but she didn’t know how. She was on the cusp of help, though, until the Chicago police intervened. Mind you, this is a police force that has been specifically trained to deal with people who suffer from mental illness. Hard to believe.
People feel for the parents, as do I. I think of my mother’s face when she greeted me in my altered state. I think of the tears in my father’s eyes. But I think more about Christina, and the strange feeling you have when the mix of lucidity and madness takes hold. You think, “I know I’m off. I know I shouldn’t be saying these things. I’m a freak. Or am I? Someone help me.” It’s utter despair. It’s no wonder so many people with biploar disorder commit suicide.
The years that followed for me included more manic episodes with more painful moments than I can bear to recall. Sometimes one of those moments will pop into my head, and I think, “My God. How did I live through that?” So many people who loved me but couldn’t save me. So many humiliations and disappointments. Above all, so much fear.