Outrageous Bipolar Expressions
I thought that I could escape the pitfalls of being Bipolar if I could recognize the phases. That I could help others understand me, if I could just explain what I’m experiencing.
Why do I want you to understand me? I have wanted to be loved and accepted forever. As long as I have been alive.
I mean, everybody does, don’t they?
Don’t they?
IT’S HOT, I’M TIRED..
Night fell, and we were ready by Burt’s golden chariot. What an amazing vehicle it was. Huge, glistening, bearing his name proudly on the door in script as the owner/operator. This was no drugged-out short-timer. No, Mr. Burt was the real deal, hauling real steel. A true gentleman, he helped me up into the cab. Awkwardly, we loaded Spicedog, and then Danny swung aboard. I sat in between the men, and a bit behind. This truck was a castle compared to the first, and Burt took pride in his home on the road. His wife’s picture held pride of place on the dash, a buxom woman with honey blonde hair who smiled warmly at the camera.
Danny and Burt hit it off, so I curled up in the back with Binky Boots Bouncer Callahan, my calico kitten. This was really an amazingly laid-back kitty, maybe because life had become crazy at such a young age for her, she just adapted. Danny had fashioned a tiny harness and leash for her, made of shoestring, it seemed to work well. I slept, hard, the exhaustion of the past 5 days felt like a month. When I woke we were rolling into Las Cruces.
As we rolled into a lot for the night, the truck stop offered showers, and food. We had been dependent on the kindness of strangers, and although I tried to hide from God, I think he had mercy on a pair of delusional addicts. In retrospect, the fact that we were never accosted or assaulted thus far was miraculous in itself!
Our time with our generous friend was soon to end, another day saw us entering Arizona. New Mexico had been dry, but mild during the day. In this climate the temperatures plummeted after the sun went down- well began layering our sparse choices of clothing.
Our bond as a couple has faced challenges, yet our love and dedication to each other and our little family remained intact. This was in spite of withdrawals from shooting up cocaine, and staying drunk 24/7. My mind had cleared, my health and stamina had improved on our journey.
All these changes for the good would later be sorely tested. For now though, our future seemed hopeful, and our days were full of excitement and freedom. I was finally actually seeing the beautiful landscape, and a few collect phone calls to my Mom meant that soon we would have a few dollars for necessities. My relationship with my parents was far from good, the heartache travelled even through the telephone lines. This made me cling tighter to Danny, to my growing kitten and our faithful pup. We would make it, I felt more sure than ever…
I have a problem. I really don’t know what to call it this time. In the past, it’s been depression, a low spell, the opposite of a manic episode. And usually, every other time, it has passed. A new day will dawn, and things will be different.
Well, I’m waiting…and waiting…and STILL waiting.
The light doesn’t seem to be coming, this time. My thinking is so messed up, trying to convince myself to get out of bed is a RAGING battle. A back and forth conversation with a brick wall. All forth, no back…
I’ve been a diagnosed Bipolar Person for many years now. Lots of therapy, self research and learning about my condition. Taking responsibility…taking my meds and doing the next right thing.
But I have not come up against this darkness in a very, very long time. What is it I am fighting? This lethargy seems medical at times; weak and dizzy, I blame recent surgery or past trauma. In reality, its probably because I don’t want to eat. Or clean. Or cook. Or go outside.
I see the sun shining, feel the winter Florida sun and know its blissfully mild. Still I pull the covers up. One thing I do do: scroll. Doom scroll. News, news, bad, awful news. Murder cases, awful documentaries about war, torture, trauma.
I try to turn it off…but I pick it back up. I try to read my Bible, instead I watch shorts of Dracula. And while the Caleb Jones guy is captivating, my mind turns into pea soup.
But now I’m chained to MISERY!!
I have asked my God for help, because I’m getting nowhere on my own. I found the wherewithal to stand up and walk to the kitchen…now I will dress and cook and open all the windows. I will publish this and put on some music and dance. There is some kind of REAL benefit in putting THE THING in writing.
Out in the light, where I can see it, and fight it.
So, for now, I bid you ‘Good Day!!!’
It’s Cold, I’m Hungry?
After Joe had decided that Danny and I had it in for him, we had to find another ride. I was still determined to make it to the West coast- whether this was to establish a “normal” life is lost to the fog of years. I do know that Danny had claimed he was a paratrooper, and I had believed him. His tall tales about San Diego were just that; embellished fantasies of a life he had never lived. ( This was brought to light about 4 years later…)
There in the dusty truckstop parking lot, I bathed as best I could from a hose behind the building. After sizing up the various drivers, I spoke to a dark haired gentleman with a nice cowboy hat. He had dismounted his gleaming honey-colored rig in high style; my thoughts, ever cinematic, compared him to Burt Reynolds. His dark eyes looked me up and down, but he spoke with kindness.
” Where you headed, girl?” he queried, squinting behind tortise rimmed glasses.
” West, sir, just West. We haven’t really decided much else…”
‘Who’s “we””, he asked, “That long-haired fella with the dog?” He nodded his head toward Danny, walking Spicedog in a nearby strip of grass and mud.
“Yes…and I have a kitten.” I pulled my sweatshirt up a bit, high enough for him to glimpse the kitten nestled in the crook of my arm.
” WHAT in the world? What were y’all thinking, bringing these animals along? Nevermind, it’s none of my business. I’m on a run to El Paso, if you want to ride. Not leaving till 7. Be out by the truck.”
“By the way, what’s your name, little Sister?”
Amazed at our good fortune, I swung around, happily.
” Lilly, my name is Lilly!”.
…rolled under the big wheels. All the hype about this bridge over Lake Ponchetrain was nothing compared to the reality. I hope I never have to cross that swaying monster again.
Being raised in Pittsburgh, I had been on many bridges, so I reasoned this would be a piece of cake. The wind had kicked up quite a bit; Danny and I were unnerved feeling the expanse swaying as we inched along. Beads of sweat had formed on Joe’s forehead as his knuckles turned white and tightened on the steering wheel. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and it was then I saw the sign declaring this bridge was 23 miles long. Now beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, too. Feeling the tension, Spice’s panting could be heard above the grinding engine. Danny slept on, oblivious.
Forty-five minutes later, we were safely off the bridge and due for another rest stop. I had witnessed Joe becoming more and more agitated as night fell. He brought up the danger of picking up passengers, wild-eyed he suggested we might be planning to assault him overnight. Danny and I tried to assure him, but it became obvious it was time for us to get out of his rig. Joe must have been crashing from his drugs, and the tension was about to boil over. After the truck came to a stop we hurriedly thanked him and unloaded. We took up a space of sidewalk behind the truckstop, contemplating our next move…
Fortunately, before we got a few miles out of Fort Deposit, an 18-wheeler rolled onto the shoulder. Although my recollection was challenged by a bad case of the heebee-geebees at the time, and many years of hard knocks since, I recall a strange exchange of words. The skinny driver had one good eye and a drawl, and asked how we thought we’d get a ride with a stupid dog. Maybe he let us get in as a source of entertainment, but he let us all pile in. In retrospect, I’m sure he was jacked as high as 4 blue Aces; at the time we had no trepidation at all. Spice was all wiggly, wagging her stump of a tail and slobbering; she was quickly settled on the floorboard, while Binky burrowed further into my sweatshirt.
Danny wasn’t keen on leading conversations. He was a quiet, contemplative man. It had been less than a year since I’d gotten out of jail; he seemed content to exist in my orbit. I was quite a handful in those years before a proper diagnosis and medication regimen. Bipolar Disorder was previously known as Manic Depression, and my brain loved to latch onto the mania. (One of my nicknames was “Runs With Scissors”.) In this instance I was chatting my head off to our new trucker friend. We got underway, his truck shuddering as he skipped a gear or two pulling onto the interstate.
The ride was rough, this was no tricked-out big truck. I forget what he was hauling, but I remember bouncing around the cab over the poorer sections of pavement. As the engine roared and belched, conversation became impossible. I dozed on Danny’s shoulder as the miles slowly crept past.
Half a day later we rolled into a truck stop, gassing up before the Mississippi River Bridge. Our driver showed some extraordinary kindness. Buying a bunch of hot dogs, peanut butter and bread, we had a veritable feast. The temperature really dropped that night, and he made us get out while he slept a few hours. He may have been generous- he was also careful. Near daybreak he suggested we all stretch and use the restroom, as he wouldn’t be stopping for a while. He said something about “the bridge”; it really didn’t seem important at the time…we loaded up and held on.
Cross Country: On the Fly…
I really dont want to make myself sound heroic…but then, again, I really do. I think I am, in the sense that I survived. The odds were definitely not on mine and Danny’s side, not even with his martial arts abilities and my athleticism and amazing wit. No, we were not favored to make it out of this situation. Our addiction was the biggest obstacle.
If ever there were 2 humans inclined towards getting high, Danny and I were they. We lived just to escape the fact that we did. I knew that bucket of slop that lurked I my locked closet of memory, but I was not too certain what his closet contained. He spoke of childhood abuse in vague terms, a mean father who could break cinder blocks with his nether parts. A trick from the old Hungarian countryside, I presumed. I was really too stoned to see past my own misery, too selfish to feel pity for what he had been through. The world owed me, and I was going to steal what I could to get back at everyone.
At the time of my leaving Palm City, I had been telling everyone that I was really Hank William’s daughter. By virtue of a blood transfusion when I was born, that by some magic, this had made me his offspring. I insisted to my Danny that we drive up to Alabama, to Hank’s hometown, where I would find my lost family. All we found was a bar where we spent our last few dollars.
chapter 2
and morning had our breath turning to steam in the frosty air. Dear Danny had laid across my freezing feet for the hours before dawn…I hadn’t left Palm City prepared for this experience. I was still resolute to keep heading west, car or no car. I had burned my last proverbial bridge, in my mind there was no turning back, no forgiveness left to beg. I had disappointed my parents for the last time.
There had been so many second, third and fourth chances at a stable, successful life. This was my geographical cure, no real plan except to keep moving-as far away from consequences and reality as I could get. How does a person in the depths of delusional thinking reason on dire reality? How does one say to their own manic, unmedicated self that their decisions will lead to near death experiences. Danger and adrenaline were my beloved companions, more intensely now befriended than ever before. The discomfort of freezing and detoxing, in a tee shirt and shorts in the bushes by a highway was less important that being the coolest person I knew. “Go West young woman!”
As dawn broke we tried to consolidate our belongings, and, while unbagging this and bagging that, I donned more layers of clothes. I put on a pair of Danny’s jeans and an old concert tee-shirt.
I was at my 23 year old finest in those days. A year in the county lock-up had left me many hours as a trustee to watch “The Body Electric” Aerobics program, and follow along with my cell-mate Sally. On our breaks in the exercise yard I had run in circles around the yard for the hour, minus some time to slip notes to Danny thru the chain link fence. He was a carpenter on the new jail annex, and my former fiancé had quit taking my calls months before. Upon my release on Christmas eve of ’87, it was only hours before Danny and I shared a joint and a passionate kiss. He was a sandy-blonde, tanned, 3rd degree black belt in Jui Jitsu, and a yellow belt in Taekwondo. Looking at old photos now he looked like a pot-smoking, rough cut Patrick Swayze. He was very kind, and gentle, with the oddest habit of falling asleep at random moments when doing so was wholly inappropriate! But, alas, I have veered into the weeds in my story…
Out of the Gutter Art 
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