Author: Terri Cheney
For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been susceptible to intense, erratic bouts of emotional turbulence. It wasn’t until I was 34 that my unpredictable swings of mood and energy were finally recognized for what they were: classic bipolar I symptoms.
Although I somehow managed to achieve professional success as an entertainment lawyer and later a writer, I couldn’t succeed at love. I dated a lot, but my relationships were always plagued by my inability to show up consistently. Whenever I got depressed—which was often—I’d go into hiding, refusing to answer phone calls, messages, or frantic knocks at the door. I was convinced that if the man I was dating ever saw me in that state, he’d turn right around and leave me forever.
Nobody wants to be abandoned, especially not if they’re prone to suicidal ideation; so it was partly self-preservation that kept me out of sight. But it was also shame and fear and self-loathing, much less noble emotions. I had great difficulty grooming myself when I was depressed, so I wasn’t a pretty sight then—unwashed hair, unkempt clothing, the complexion of a corpse. Plus I had zero energy to engage with anyone else, or make even the most trivial attempt at conversation. The thought of being seen this way, when I tried so hard to keep up a polished and poised facade at other times, was unbearable.
And so I hid, and so the years—30 of them, half my lifetime—passed. And with them my dream of ever settling down with a man I adored. Doing the New York Times crossword puzzle in bed with him on lazy Sunday mornings. Knowing each other’s minutiae, like when he had a dentist appointment, or the name of my first dog.
It was a difficult dream to let go of, but life has a way of compensating for suffering, even if it seems to take forever. Slowly, gradually, and with a great deal of trial and error, the medications for my bipolar disorder started to work—especially once I stopped using alcohol to manage my moods. Years of therapy began to kick in. I discovered mindfulness meditation, which helped me focus more on the present and less on the painful past or uncertain future.
Then, at the wiser but not quite wizened age of 64, I met a man. A good man, who’d read all three of the books I’ve written about my life with bipolar disorder—which recount some pretty harrowing episodes—yet wanted to date me anyway. I’d been relatively stable for almost a decade by then, but love still seemed a dream away. What if I got depressed again? Would my past behavior repeat itself?
But then I thought, if not now, when? Terrified, I said yes.
That was over two years ago, and our bond seems to get stronger with each passing day. Infatuation has morphed into intimacy. It feels like a genuine miracle to me, to be in a healthy, committed relationship with someone who knows all about my mental illness, but doesn’t run away.
Or at least, he thinks he knows…
The inevitable should never surprise you, but nonetheless I was genuinely shocked when, about a month ago, the ghosts of depression came back to haunt me. I felt heavy and lethargic; just getting out of bed took a monumental effort of will. The thought of taking a shower—washing my hair, combing it, drying it, styling it—was simply too much to bear. I’d only have to do it again, and again, and again, ad nauseam, for the remainder of my existence on earth. What for?
Fortunately or unfortunately, my partner and I don’t live together yet; I still have my own place about an hour away. I was at my house when the darkness descended, so he didn’t see the transformation occur. But he could hear the difference over the phone.
“Your voice sounds funny,” he said. “Are you getting a cold?”
Excellent lie, I thought. “Yeah, I feel all achy and tired. I think I’ll spend another week out here, and just rest up and take it easy.”
“But you could do that here,” he said. “And I could take care of you.”
“That’s really sweet, but I don’t want you to catch my cold, or flu, or whatever this is.”
I maintained the lie for the rest of that week, fake sneezing and coughing my way through our phone calls. But I was miserable, and not just because of the depression. This was not the way our relationship was supposed to be. We had both talked, early on, about how essential transparency and honesty were, and how we wanted to be each other’s true confidantes. But put to the test, it seemed depression was winning yet again.
I finally called my therapist. She didn’t mince words. “I think what you’re doing will damage your relationship,” she said. Maybe that seems obvious to the outsider, but to me—viewing the world as I did through the self-absorbed murk of depression—it was a lightning bolt of clarity, straight to the heart. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to hurt my partner, or impede the progress we’d made toward lasting love.
But let him see me this way? I looked in the mirror at my gaunt face and haunted eyes, and all my past fears and doubts came rushing back. I knew they were right: I would be risking abandonment. But I would also be risking something else—the loss of a life deeply shared with another human being—if I didn’t take the chance.
“Crosswords in bed,” I kept repeating, as I forced myself to get dressed.
It took all my courage, all the years of therapy and hard-earned growth, to call up my partner and tell him what was really going on. I thought he would be mad because I had lied. Instead, he thanked me for being honest. “Come home, honey,” he said. I did, and I’m glad, because now I know something extraordinary: that the past can only hold you prisoner for as long as you believe in its chains.
