Tentacles

By Heather MacDonald

The miniature flashes of light were magical. I was transfixed as I watched the soft clicks of incandescent twinkles explode throughout the tea room. The fairy lights danced around the tables, through people's hair and up to the ceiling. It was as if the room was flooded with magic dust and fireflies.

***

I mentioned the lights to my two friends, absorbed in their own conversation, who were enjoying afternoon tea with me. They seemed confused and said they couldn't see any lights at all. Had they known I had a history of bipolar disorder they would have been alarmed. But it was the early eighties, and I did not disclose my mental health background to friends or employers. I held my tragic story close to my 28-year-old heart, always with the fear of being judged, held back from advancement, or even fired.

I was not at all concerned with what I was seeing, and in fact felt bad for what my friends were missing. They had clearly not been chosen by God or the Universe to experience the beauty and tranquility I was enjoying in this moment.

The past year had been so lonely and hard. Struggling with the first year of a divorce, managing a high profile, stressful job, and digging out from a mountain of debt.

Now, those hard times were behind me. Life was lightening. I had felt the welcome tentacles of a new-found sense of well-being embracing me in the past few days.

After our tea, I said goodbye to my friends. I walked home, feeling lighter than air. As I changed and freshened up, I admired my reflection in the hall mirror. Wow, I looked better than I had in weeks! I was headed to the home of my best friend for dinner.

My bus ride was magical. After months of personal turmoil I felt absolute peace wash over me. A dense, heavy fog had been lifted from my life. I noticed a small child a couple of seats up the aisle. We smiled and had a deep connection. I admired the brilliant gold and orange of the late afternoon Regina sky. For the third time in recent days I heard the voice of God whispering in my ear, telling me how much I was loved. That I was finally destined for great things. My suffering was finally over.

Little did I know I was steeped in anosognosia, a medical term I was to come to understand many years later. It describes people's lack of insight or ability to perceive the reality of their own mental health conditions and symptoms.

I had known my friend Carol for only a few years, but she knew me better than anyone. She picked up on my elevated mood immediately. She noticed I was more animated than usual, speaking very fast, almost giddy.

“How are you feeling Heather?”

“Fine. Fine. Better than ever, actually.” I shrugged off my coat. “I think I've finally turned a corner with my divorce blues, Carol. Life is great!”

She signaled me to the couch. “Hmmm, that's good.” She let out a worried sigh as I sat down beside her. “And, how have you been sleeping Heather?”

“Oh, I don't need much sleep,” I replied. “Probably about three to four hours a night. Look at me. I feel great, and I'm not even tired!”

Carol poured me some tea. “You know you can trust me, right?”

“Of course, I answered,” my curiosity piqued.

“I have an important question that I want you to think about and answer as honestly as you can.” She paused and took both of my hands in hers. “Have you experienced anything unusual lately? Seen or heard things that no one else has?”

I took a deep breath. How could she have known? With a sense of wonder, I shared my experience of the soft clicking lights and of hearing the comforting, loving voice of God.

Carol continued to look tenderly, directly into my eyes.

“Heather, based on what you have told me about your past, I think you are headed for a bipolar episode. I'm worried you haven't been sleeping much, and you've already told me that it’s not good for your mental health. You are not making sense, and you're acting high. This elevated mood of yours is dangerous.”

“Carol, I'm fine.” Why couldn't she just be happy for me? In frustration I asked her, “Is it OK if I have a cigarette?”

“Disappointing that you've started again. But sure, go ahead.”

I lit up and took a deep drag, while Carol went in search of an ashtray.

She sat down beside me. “Carol, you don't have to worry about me. Lots of people are chosen, like me, to see and hear things that most people aren't lucky enough to experience.”

“Heather, how long have you been feeling this way?”

“Just a few days.” I stood up and began to pace the room. “It's really no big deal. I just saw some lights flickering in a restaurant this afternoon. And God's been talking to me a little bit this week. He talks to everyone you know. Most people are just not as tuned in as me.”

Carol's eyes welled up. “Sit with me.” She patted the cushion next to her. Once more she took my hands in hers. “Heather, I am not a doctor, but I really think you are getting sick. Do you want to end up in the hospital again?”

I yanked my hands away and stood up. “Of course I don't. I told you I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”

She took me in her arms and gave me a long, lingering hug.

“Heather, how long have we known each other?”

“Five years or so.”

“And I am the only one in town you've told your whole story to, right? About your mental breakdown ten years ago? And your six month stay on the psychiatric ward in Toronto. Right?” I nodded.

In a flash, I had memories of strait jackets, over medication and shock treatments. And, the hopelessness of living on a psychiatric ward for several months came back to haunt me.

I was only 18 when I had my first manic episode in Toronto. I remember hearing the voice of God on a rainy night, as I sat alone in the rooming house I was living in. Later that night I shared what I was experiencing with a man I had recently met. His name was Tom and I was falling hard for him. I recall him telling me he had to go away. He also told me I was getting sick, and to always remember I would get well. He was like a human God to me. So kind and loving and handsome. I remember being picked up the next day by the police. I had found my way into several high rises and had been knocking on apartment doors, asking if Tom was there.

When I was taken to hospital, I was completely hysterical, screaming and ranting until I was medicated and placed in a strait jacket. At first, the medical professionals thought I had overdosed, or had some kind of chemical imbalance. The next theory was that I had schizophrenia. To further complicate my medical situation, a few weeks after my admission my mother suddenly passed away from an aneurysm at the age of 38. Because of my unstable emotional state, I was not told of her death for a few months. I was still not improving after four long months. On the urging of my family, I consented to electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), also known as shock treatment. Though highly controversial at the time, I believe this was a turning point in my recovery, as memories of the previous year of personal and family trauma were blocked forever. The memory of the anesthetic needle being injected into the top of my hand will always haunt me. Almost five decades later I can still feel the coolness rushing through my body as the sodium pentothal took effect.

After twenty-eight shock treatments I was diagnosed as being bipolar and placed on the drug Lithium, to which I responded remarkably well. After being in hospital for six months, I was released and started college in Belleville Ontario in the Broadcast Journalism Program. It took another several months to get fully back to myself, with the care and love of my father and ten-year-old sister. For nearly a decade now my life had been normal and relatively stable and I had an established career in small market broadcasting.

As I sat quietly, staring out the picture window, Carol interrupted my reverie.

“Heather, I have seen these delusional patterns with another friend you haven't met. I think I know what the beginning of a manic episode looks like. I want you to call your psychiatrist right now and get an appointment for tomorrow morning. Let them know at work you won't be coming in. You are staying here tonight and I will take you to your appointment.”

I peered out the window as I reflected on what she was telling me. Although I was holding fast to my delusions, which were in fact my reality, and my welcomed sense of renewed well-being, a small part of me wondered if Carol might be right. The last thing I wanted was a full-blown manic episode. I knew from bitter experience that a case of mania could easily steal a year from my life.

Carol was my most treasured friend, and the most grounded person I had ever met. I decided to trust her.

She interrupted my train of thought. “Maybe you just need some rest, some sleep medication and an adjustment of your lithium.”

As it turns out, my wise friend was right. My psychiatrist concluded I was at the beginning of a manic episode and I was lucky to have caught it early. I was admitted to hospital and I bounced back to reality within a few days. I was released within a week, after some counseling, shifts in medication and lots of rest. Even though I was independent and doing well with my work, it took several months before I felt whole and balanced again.

This experience marked a crucial turning point for me in managing my bipolar condition. For the first time I had insight into my own illness. This forever improved my ability to trust those around me in recognizing the symptoms of the onset of mania. Also, I learned to be suspicious of feelings and emotions that felt too good to be true.

Today, it's been over thirty years since I have experienced delusional thinking and mania. A few times throughout my life I have been fortunate to have had trusted friends and family members help talk me down to earth from delusional thinking. Caring professionals have had a major impact on my sustained and sound mental health, most notably a highly insightful and compassionate Vancouver psychiatrist who counseled me for 20 years, starting in 1993.

Now, at age sixty-four, I am still taking lithium, albeit a very low dose. According to my doctor, bipolar has been known to burn itself out as age advances. While choosing to believe this, I remain vigilant, especially in times of stress, to do everything I can to ward off a bipolar episode.

Bitter experience has taught me that yielding to the seductive tentacles of mania can wrap me in fake euphoria and well-being that will take me nowhere good. I will forever be indebted to my dear late friend Carol. She helped me to accept my limitations and gain the insight I needed to avoid becoming seriously mentally ill for a second time in life. She was my true life angel.