Chapter 7 The Moon's Bay͟
I don't want to write this chapter, but Ifeel it is important. In the 1940s, before the advent of modernmedicine, more than 40% of people with Bipolar eventually committedsuicide. Even today, the number of those who lose their lives to thisdisease is staggering.
All of us who have this Bipolar know ͞thedark hour.͟ We are alone. We are afraid. We feel that the whole weightof the world rests upon us and we cannot carry it one step further. Inthat hour, above all other times, we must know that this is not whatthe world is truly like. The foreboding thoughts are not what we reallythink. The terrible weight and craving for darkness are not ourthoughts. They are the products of changes in the frontal lobe of ourbrains, in the rate of neuron growth, in the shedding of the myelinsheath around our nerve cells. We are, in that dark hour, locked in afalse prison built of thoughts produced by this disease ʹ a diseasethat has altered the very function of our brains. If we die in thathour, the disease wins.
My darkest hour came on a beach inCalifornia. I'd taken one of my famous road trips, all the way fromKansas to the coast in three days, then spent a week cruising northernCalifornia. This time was different. I had been back and forth betweendepression and mixed episodes for six months. Although I beat aroundthe California countryside for a week, my intent was clear. In the backof the car was a rifle I'd purchased especially for this occasion. I'deven bought an old junker car and left my more expensive one at home tobe sold to cover the bills.
I don't know what day it was when Ifound the bay. It is somewhere North of Mendocino; a beautifulhorseshoe bay with high cliff walls and a narrow outlet to the sea. Iplayed around on the beach for a few hours. There were large lava rocksscattered here and there and a small scoop of a cave off to the right.I decided this would be the place.
I went into Mendocino andfiddled around that afternoon. I was wearing an Other and I'm not surewhat I was doing. I know I ate dinner at a restaurant attached to ahotel. I remember this because I had a flimsy internal debate aboutwhether or not to skip the whole suicide thing and get a hotel room. Ididn't have the money, not that it would have made a difference.
Itwas fairly late at night when I went back to the bay. I set myself upon a large rock, rifle in hand, suicide note in pocket. I didn't knowabout Apollo 13 then, so the significance of the bright moon shiningdirectly overhead was lost on me. It was only a day or two from full. Icould see kelp tops underwater. It was that bright.
I began to cryalmost at once. I cried because the soul that is me was rebellingagainst the urge to die that was not me, an urge created by my disease.As I cried, the tears changed. From somewhere inside, a sense ofdetermination appeared. I told myself, in spite of everything, I wasn'tgoing to die. I gave myself permission to live. My tears of fear andsorrow became tears of relief and also grief for the part of life I'dalready lost to the illness. Gradually, there came anger. If I didn'twant to die what the hell was I doing on a beach in California with agun? What was driving this?
Although I would not get intotreatment until the next time I got seriously depressed, this was myfirst moment of awakening; a separation between me and the disease.This was the moment that gave me the power to seek help.
I don'tremember falling asleep, but I woke up on that rock several hourslater. It was cold and lava rocks are not very comfortable. My rightankle hurt where I had been lying on my foot. The moon was laying lowover the sea and her reflection was like a sidewalk out to her. Ididn't take that walk. I tore up the note, got in the car and starteddriving. I slept the rest of the night on a roadside somewhere else andhad an uncooked frozen pizza for breakfast.
I don't know why I gotthe sudden will to live. Higher power? So I could later bring mydaughter into the world? A little extra Vasoactive Peptide in theCerebellum? I don't know. What I do know is that I'm alive. It's not myfault that I have this disease and I'll be damned if I'm going to letit kill me, or anyone else I can keep away from it.
I know thatthe real me has never wanted to kill himself. My suicidal thoughts werecaused by a disease. Having pneumonia will make you cough. HavingBipolar makes you think about death. It's not you. It's the disease.
Alot of folks who are on the edge of suicide end up calling local lawenforcement in order to prevent themselves from carrying thorough withending their lives. Paramedics and police officers know the mentalhealth supports that are available and can help you. If you arestanding at the dark doorway and can't wait to call your doctor, localmental health clinic or a religious figure, put down this book and call911 or the local emergency phone number. I want you to live. I can'tbear to think that you would get this close to hope and not make it. Ifyou need help, go get it right now.作者: 龙井似碗钉 时间: 09-1-26 23:21
要有死灰复燃的信心，凤凰般涅的美丽
