Roar! It’s 2009! Let’s talk bipolar, or, as Sophie calls it, the Polar Bear Disease that Vincent Van Gogh Had and Mommy Has Except Mommy Hasn’t Cut Off Her Ears Yet.
Let’s talk about it, because it’s worth talking about. Because chances are, you know someone who struggles with it, but you may not know he or she is struggling with it. Unlike other diseases, bipolar disorder is an embarrassing pain in the tuchas to explain. And 2009 seems like a good year for enlightened discussion and opportunities for compassion, so let’s go for it.
The Polar Bear Disease is not for the faint of heart. But first, let me tell you a story about a real polar bear. Once upon a time, not too long ago, a baby polar bear named Knute was orphaned by his mother at the Berlin Zoo (am I the only person who reads this stuff?). Predictably, he became the beau of the ball, a gorgeous, curious little cotton ball with shiny black eyes. A zookeeper moved into Knute’s pen to feed him, snuggle him, wrestle with him. Crowds of thousands came to the zoo to worship adorable, clever, sweet Knute. Hundreds of them went home and posted YouTube videos. Knute was a superstar.
Until he got bigger. And bigger. And bigger.
It wasn’t his fault he got bigger. It’s just what polar bears do. But for safety reasons, his beloved zookeeper was eventually no longer permitted inside Knute’s pen.
You can imagine that poor Knute was pretty devastated, losing his surrogate mama. Crowds waned to a trickle. Who comes to see a depressed, dirty teenage polar bear? Not many, my friends, not many.
Last time I checked, they were trying to find a mate for Knute. I picture her saying, Knute, you’ve got some real issues, and I don’t think it’s wise to bring more polar bears into this zoo until you deal with your depression, baby.
Now let’s talk humans. Bipolar disorder (and there are at least two versions—Bipolar Lite and Bipolar Stout—and a few more that doctors squabble over) is frequently found in some pretty interesting folks. When things are under control, they’re often people who are creative and agile with language and art or whatever it is they care about. They are often passionate, perceptive, empathetic, charismatic. Knutes of the human world. Aw! Cute!
One example: You wondered why you loved Carrie Fisher in Star Wars and When Harry Met Sally. She’s fab, and she’s also got bipolar disorder (also known as manic-depression, yeah, take your pick) and she’s quite vocal about it, which is terrific.
With cancer—a dreadful, terrifying disease if there ever was one—the goal is to make it go away, or at the very least, send it into remission. The aim is to become a cancer survivor. Amen to that.
Bipolar disorder is a different beast. It doesn’t go away, and it can worsen with time. Bipolar disorder (especially Bipolar 1—Bipolar Stout—which is my variety) can be absolutely deadly. The suicide rate for Bipolar 1 with mixed state (crippling depression combined with frightening mania and overwhelming anxiety) is very high. Right now, the goal is to manage bipolar disorder, because it’s a chronic disease with no cure. Sometimes, the meds help the Bipolar Bear regain equilibrium. Sometimes, the meds stop working, inexplicably, and it’s back to Square One.
Bummed-out, messed-up, dirty Knutes. Man, why can’t Knute get it together? Everybody suffers a little heartache now and then. Deal with it, Knute!
Alas, my friends: Bipolar disorder, in its acute form, can rob a human bipolar bear of any coping abilities whatsoever. This is difficult to explain to friends and family, because aside from a dirty house and a disheveled appearance and maybe an empty fridge, you still look, you know, like…you.
In its small, cute, fluffy form, bipolar disorder is often tucked away behind flair and smarts and curiosity and quirkiness. It’s manageable.
But it grows. And once it grows, it’s a lot harder to handle. Few are brave enough to want to get into a pen with it.
But that’s what human Bipolar Bears need—brave souls willing to get in the pen with them, to believe them when they say, My God, what’s happening to me, I don’t remember doing this, doing that, where was I? Where am I now? I don’t remember the last time I shopped or ate, I don’t think I can make it, I took the wrong meds, I threw up my meds, remind me why I need meds? Because I don’t remember.
It’s called bipolar because the mind swings viciously between despair and mania. The lows are so low as to be life-threatening. The highs are also life-threatening, if not medicated, because the intensity of the highs can cause the Bipolar Bear to act rashly and make dangerous choices.
The trick of this balancing act? Is to recognize that there will never be a true separation of the illness from oneself. Bipolar disorder allows for appreciation of humanity in all of its startling gorgeousness and devastation. How one manages the onslaught of perception…this is no small feat, and will never be.
I am Bipolar Bear. Hear me roar.
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