This bipolar stuff is tricky, like walking a tightrope: tip too far toward mania and you think you’re happy-dancing on cloud nine. Too far toward depression, and you’re mired in Bunyan’s Slough of Despond. And, in my experience, the higher you fly, the further you fall.

Now, if you pressed me, I suppose I could get all technical about bipolar. There’s Type I. And Type II. But I’m certainly no shrink and the differences between the two can be confusing to a to a simple crazy guy like me. I just know that I’ve had have my highs and my lows. And mine is one of the two types. And not the other.

Delusions of Grandeur

I reckon I had my first bipolar break as a kid who’d taken a year off college at CU Boulder to write “The Great American Novel”. (If you’re thinking, “Yeah, right!” about now, you’ve pretty well nailed it.)

But instead of buckling down and writing, what really happened was that I’d gotten involved in a tumultuous relationship with a woman named Lolly that got me in way over my head. There were only two lasting results of that on-again, off-again train wreck of a romance. First, I got so depressed that it drove me to Christianity. And, second, on the rebound from a particularly nasty bout with depression, I experienced my first go-round with mania. And what a doozy it was.

Walking over the footbridge to cross Boulder Creek on my way to Norlin Library, I nearly persuaded myself that I was Jesus Christ. (Ask yourself: would I lie about something as nutty as this?) I can still picture it. Leaning on the railing of the bridge, looking down into the dappled, swirling waters of the creek on that bright fall day, wondering “Is it possible . . . ?” “Hello, Spence. It’s not!”

From there, it was only a few days to the pheasant hunting trip with my Dad in northeast Colorado where things got really ugly and I persuaded myself that he wanted to kill me.

Again, you can’t make this stuff up.

Forty Years In The Wilderness

Sure, that’s probably a bit of a stretcher. But not by much. There were years-even decades-when I had very little understanding of the demon with which I was wrestling. Sure, I’d been involuntarily committed to the Mount Airy Psychiatric Hospital after that hunting trip-and put on anti-psychotic meds. But when I was released, I immediately thought, “Who needs these pills? I’ve got Jesus.” So I quit taking the pills.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. For years. Not always as bad as that first go-round. But sometimes they were. And when they were-especially on the down swing-dangerously so. Like blow your brains out so. With a lovely wife and three wonderful kids. Makes me shudder even now.

That’s My Story. And I’m Stickin’ To It

It must have during one of those nastier bouts with mania that Marleen spoke with her sister, Annie, about what was going on. Annie’s a nurse too. And it was her that raised the possibility of bipolar. At least that’s what I remember hearing somewhere along the way. Although when I recently called Annie to confirm my memory, she had no recollection of the conversation. Whatever. I’m stickin’ to my story.

So Marleen and I went to see a shrink who had an office just around the corner. Grim? Ah, yes. Dark room. Dark Naugahyde upholstery. Curtains drawn. The guy peering down at us from behind a big desk like we were truant school kids. In a word? Creepville. His solution? Lithium.

We hadn’t pulled out of the parking lot before Marleen said, “No way. I’m not going back there. And Lithium?” she went on, “that’s strong stuff. I don’t think you should be using it.” And this from a woman who was a nurse. And who’d pretty much seen it all from me: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

So, I asked for a reference from my business partner, Tony Cook, who’d had some experience with a Dr Jay Carlson, a psychiatrist who’d helped one of Tony’s kids with some mental health issues. Read about how that happened here.

“I’ve Got To Admit It’s Getting Better”

Carlson never mentioned Lithium. But Depakote? Check. Risperidone? Check again. Both anti-psychotics. Both with potentially nasty side effects. But trust me, the disorder is worse than the any cure I’ve tried. And now, before I lay me down to sleep, I faithfully pop those pills.

Now, we first met with Dr Carlson ten, maybe twelve years ago. I’m 69 now. I was released from Mount Airy when I was about 21 or 23. So more like 30 years-rather than 40-with just Jesus as my co-pilot. Do I believe He could have healed me? Sure. But for whatever reason, He didn’t.

In any event, there were finally two legs of the stool firmly in place: the Rock of Christ. And those anti-psychotic meds.

Ha! Fooled Ya!

Now, seriously, who’s ever heard of a two legged stool? Well, I guess Dilbert has. But other than that goofball? Only some seriously demented furniture makers.

But let’s get real. A two legged stool is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

So, the third leg for me? Family. No question. And, yes, there’ve been some bumps and bruises for them along the wild ride of my ups and downs. But could I have made it without them?

I won’t even hazard a guess.