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| Category: Addiction Counselors |
Date published: February 7, 2006 |
I sat in the car as the bus pulled up across the road. I watched and waited, secretly hoping he had changed his mind and let me down again as I was so accustomed to him doing. I felt sick and resentful as I asked myself for the hundredth time "Why do I still allow him to pull me into his nightmares." Some sense of loyalty which I knew was ill placed; a belief that friend's look after each other through thick or thin or just the commitment to long ago promises that I couldn't bear to renege on. I don't know; maybe I just have some deep psychological need to help the helpless or an inability to let myself feel like the bad guy. The last time I had seen him I had screamed at him `Never Again' and I meant it then as much as I had meant it all the other times.
I hadn't seen him for two or three years although every few months I would get a late night call and a new, but all so familiar drama or crisis of some kind would be relayed in a slurred or desperate voice. He would cry and plead with me to take him back or to at least help him, and the promises would play out and repeat like a scratched record. I had heard it all so many times - he could have just shut up and I could have done all the talking for him.
Four nights earlier he had called again and I knew it was the end of the line. He had just come out of hospital and it was the third time he had been dead on arrival. His day had come and he knew it; either he straightened out now or he died. Everything was finally closing in on him and he had debts and some potential jail time hot on his heels.
I don't know why I agreed to help him out, but it certainly wasn't done with an open and loving heart. At best I would say I was indifferent or else I just was not prepared to know he died with my name being the last word he called. I was hard though, and made it clear that I would only provide a bed and food and nothing more. I did not want to hear about his problems and I did not want him to think he was in anyway a part of my life.
I hardly recognised the person walking towards me, but I'm sure the look on my face let him know how repulsed I was to see him. He was a skeleton in loose orange skin, his eyes were yellow, his hair had been bleached, but done badly so it was also yellow and his teeth were rotten. The bus trip from the east coast was a 3 day drive and I knew he had borrowed the money for the fare, but probably nothing extra for food. Talk about "Cold Turkey" I couldn't even imagine how someone could withdraw from a heroin addiction while sitting on a bus. I could have admired him for that, but all I could think about was how embarrassing it was going to be when my new life met my old life.
I knew the minute I first met Stephen that my life was about the change. We moved in together within weeks of meeting and were inseparable for the next four years. Those four years were filled with love and laughter; he was my best friend, my lover, teacher, brother, parent and child. I have never before or since known someone as well as I knew him nor have I given as much of myself as I did to him.
We were young and healthy and filled with possibility and we bought out the best in each other. He was charming and worldly and so charismatic that people from all walks of life wanted to befriend him. Women of all ages became easily infatuated with him and yet he was also a man's man. He had it all; the looks, intelligence, sensitivity, warmth and humour. He was dynamic, capable, adventurous and talented and everyone expected he would be some kind of superstar.
They were such magical times and we travelled the country and lived life like it was an ongoing adventure - we were invincible. Our house was always open and our circle of friends was wide and varied. We played like grown up children and life was just an ongoing party. Stephen was always at centre stage and I basked in his light.
When things change they tend to change in a rather insidious way so it's hard to pin point an event or a time which could or should have sounded any alarm. Of course there were times in which I challenged his drinking and often it ended up in a fight or me storming out. He was a dreadful drunk and seemed to get extremely drunk on very little. I was also aware that as soon as he had a taste of alcohol there was no stopping, he drank faster with each glass and he drank til he dropped. He was an ugly drunk as well - glassy eyed, slurred speech and unsteady on his feet. He would drone on and on about nothing or repeat himself to the point that I would walk away and close the door.
Socializing was a normal daily event at our place and we considered ourselves to be popular and lucky to have so many friends and so much fun.
The drinking was becoming more than just irritating or embarrassing and I noticed he no longer bounced back the way he had before. He began to lose his spark and without the drink he was becoming depressed and listless.
He decided to give the booze a rest and thought a little pot smoking would be a bit healthier and just as much fun. For a little while it bought him back to life and he seemed to handle it much better than the booze. I didn't really mind him getting stoned, but I did begin to mind the amount of money he was spending and I was also outgrowing the party all week-long thing. I needed some space and wanted a quiet, relaxed homelike. I was fed up with having no food in the fridge and people sleeping on our chairs and floor.
Smoking dope was considered rather harmless and had a certain social prestige at the time. It was also highly profitable, easy to grow and sell. Stephen decided to become a salesman and sold it by the matchbox full at first and later by the ounce. He reasoned it would subsidise his usage and add a few dollars to the kitty. With an infinite supply it was easy to smoke it morning, noon and night.
We began arguing more and he had longer and more frequent bouts of depression and listlessness. He was unmotivated about most things and had given up his job as the dope was more fun and made him more money. L.S.D and speed were just beginning to make their way into our circle and it was easy for him to expand the business and give himself that extra zing that had been missing.
It wasn't all bad and really for the most part we were good and life was good, but bit by bit we fought more and I began a series of leaving him, returning and leaving him again. For him drugs had become a way of life and a part of who he was. For me drugs were his mistress and I was hurt and betrayed as I watched her stealing him away.
There was no point in trying to speak with him when he was out of it, but when he was straight he seemed paranoid, restless and morose. His personality had changed dramatically and he became sneaky and secretive. Some days he would stay in bed and often he would not leave the house for weeks. He started telling me stories about how lonely and unloved he had felt for most of his life and kept obsessing about painful events from his past. His self confidence and self esteem had plummeted to a frightening level and then the suicide talk started.
When he was up he was extremely up and he took everyone up with him. He began a number of successful businesses and was something of an entrepreneur in his own right, but even when he worked for others he always outshone his colleagues and impressed his employer's right from the onset. There were many times he was able to employ friends and many times he made small fortunes. It seemed to me that no matter how far down he got he was always able to pick himself up and shine again. What confused me most about this though was that it was when he was doing well that he seemed to have the most trouble. I often accused him of being more afraid of success than he was of failure.
He would make heaps of money and dazzle everyone, but it always ended with him sabotaging himself and giving the money away in some sort of reckless way. He would then retreat, hit the booze or the dope and go into weeks of despair. I once pointed out that most people have an emotional swing about six inches either side of centre, but he seemed to swing up and around the bar until he flung himself off and landed in a heap.
I finally left after a very ugly and an all too regular rage of jealously. His depression and despair had become some kind of paranoia and I had somehow become the centre of that paranoia. He was so overwhelmingly possessive that he had begun to abuse anyone who he felt might steal me away from him.
I moved across the country and became a different person and led a completely different life. Over the years he would show up from time to time and although I kept the distance between us, he always managed to create some kind of chaos and then he would be gone again. He had become a heroin addict and his life was out of his control most of the time. He had become an exceptional liar and a habitual con man. I had heard he had done a few short stints in jail and probably as many stints in hospitals. Every now and again he would clean up and get it together for a while, but always he managed to come undone.
He had broken my heart; disappointed me, embarrassed and frightened me. I will say in his defence though, he did not steal from me and only rarely did he attempt to lie to me. I mention this because heroin addicts can usually only exist by lying and stealing. I'm not sure if it is pure desperation or just the strong belief that what they are saying is true at the time they are saying it, but they are phenomenal liars. Stealing is usually an essential way of life for a junkie, whether it's burglary, shop lifting, fraud or robbery.
I had seen Stephen in physical pain as well as almost insane with panic in his desperation for heroin and yet I always knew he would not rip me off financially nor would he hurt me physically. A couple of times he did try to lie to me, but he could never do it by looking at me. In fact he was so ashamed he would drop his head and speak so quietly that I would ask him to speak up and look at me, but he never did - he just walked away.
I mention this not just because it is so unusual, but because I was aware that somewhere within him, no matter how desperate he was, he somehow believed that I was always his last chance. Somewhere deep, deep within his mind, he had managed to keep me separate and I think in a way he needed to believe that I would always be there for him. Somehow at some point, I must have also bought into the same belief because here I was one more time, giving him one last chance.
So here I was all these years later, looking at a yellow skeleton with bad teeth. He was smiling and looking a little timid and I suppose secretly hoping I would hug him and welcome him. He looked like a creature from some unknown source, but with an ever so slight resemblance to someone I once knew. I experienced a range of reactions and emotions as I stared blankly at him. The one thing that I remember most about that moment was the voice inside my head had stated, `Stephen is dead and this is his murderer."
He stayed a few months and those months were difficult and uncomfortable for me and I am sure they were hell for him. He did straighten out and he did it all on his own. It turned out that he had hepatitis and had become epileptic since I had last seen him. Physically he was a mess and although he wasn't yet forty, he had a heart condition and had had a couple of minor strokes. We didn't talk much; I could barely look at him. He spent most of his time reading self help books, eating well, sleeping long hours and walking each day.
One thing I did find quite peculiar was that when we did speak he seemed to be relating in the same way as he had when he was in his twenties. It was like fifteen years had not passed; his dress, music, jargon, interests and self image were all caught up in some time warp. I mentioned this to a friend of mine who was a psychologist and he said that it could be that events which occurred under the influence of the drugs or alcohol may not have been stored in his memory. In a way his most recent recollections were those things which occurred prior to the drug taking. That made things pretty bizarre for me as he was remembering me as his girlfriend from yesterday, and yet I was seeing him as a dead man walking, who occasionally reminded me of my old friend Stephen.
Even though he had straightened out and found himself a job, new friends and a place to live, I didn't really believe that it would last. After years and years of pleading with him to get straight the hardest thing for me to accept was that a drug free life for an ex junkie is a sad and lonely anti climax. He was living in an old mans body and without drugs he was in constant pain, discomfort and anxiety. He had a criminal record and no real skills so his job options were limited, boring and low paying. Intellectually and emotionally he was immature and he was more comfortable with people many years younger, but they generally found him difficult to relate to. In the back of my mind I really did wonder if perhaps he may have done better to live hard and die young after all.
When he decided to pack up and go back east I was relieved. He promised he would stay clean and I guess we both knew he wouldn't. I still had that voice in my head telling me that Stephen was already gone and whoever this replica was he would soon be gone as well. I could no longer convince myself that if and when that happened it might not just be a better option or at least a kinder solution. I had been so sure that kicking the addiction was the most important part of it all that it never occurred to me that life there after would be painful, joyless and hopeless for him.
I had to accept that I was not his life-line and in my mind I had also come to terms with the fact that the Stephen I once knew had gone forever. The phone call confirming this would only be a matter of time and a formality. I told him this one night when he called and he wanted me to say that I would be sad and that I would miss him. I said I would not and added I would not even bother to go to his funeral.
The last time he called was very late at night and his voice was filled with that all so familiar desperation. "I'm dying" he said as he had said so many times before. "I'm just ringing to say good bye and to tell you I love you and that I'm sorry, and I wanted to say thanks for everything."
This was becoming a regular 3am nuisance and I was really irritated. I usually let him drone on and mostly I tried to talk him through it, but I had had enough. It had been almost twenty years now and still he was using his death as a tool to manipulate or control me. "Stephen, if you want to die, then go and die. You don't need to tell me or involve me and I'm sick and tired of you using this game every to time you want attention. Understand this, I don't care, do whatever you want to do, but don't call here again".
Stephen's father had always thought of me as his daughter-in-law and it was very difficult to explain that I would not attend the funeral. I later heard the church was overflowing with people and it was a sad, but beautiful service with many people unknown to the family standing up and expressing their love and fondness for Stephen.
I also heard that when he overdosed, the people who were with him managed to get him to the hospital, but due to fear of the legal consequences, they simply dropped him off outside and sped off. We are not sure how long he had been there, but he was found unconscious in the car park and a day or so later they pronounced him `brain dead'. His father's final decision for his son was to give his permission to turn off the life support.
Over the years I have crossed paths with drug addicts and alcoholics, but I certainly haven't involved myself with them in any real way. I had well and truly decided that no one wins this game. I promised myself, I would not trust a junkie nor would I try to help one. I was convinced that if my son ever ventured down that path I would chain him to a bed, at an isolated house, deep in the outback of Australia. Luckily I never had to take that option, but regardless of promises made, I did find myself being called up again.
Barry's mother is a close family friend who was the most unlikely person to be caught up with the world of drugs and all that the lifestyle represents. A clean living, church going woman, who thought that coffee was a drug and swearing was about as close to a sin as she had experienced. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but the point is she considered her family to be a stable, clean living and moral unit and would never have thought that someone like her or her son would be the `kind of people' who would ever be involved with drugs.
She was aware that Barry had had some problems, but she just expected he would sort himself out when he saw the light and returned to his church. She was beside herself the night she called and couldn't comprehend that he had admitted he had a drug problem. He didn't actually need to admit anything, the proof was in the fact that she had just picked him up and raced him to hospital; frothing at the mouth and blue in the face.
To her a drug overdose was only a term used in television shows or on the news. Drug addicts were people who came from bad or dysfunctional homes. In a way, although she had probably never consciously thought it, I guess, she, like so many others just assumed that drug addicts are bad people or stupid people or at the very least, just `other people'.
She kept repeating, "What's happening, what can I do, what does it mean, who can I call, how do I fix it."
My first instinct was to retreat to my long ago promise to myself to not get involved. I tried to detach myself, but I cared a lot about her and Barry and I knew she was a total innocent and no one within her circle of friends would have much experience with these issues.
We spoke a number of times and the questions were still the same each time and so were my answers. "You can't do anything, you can't fix this, and you need to stop seeing him as your son and start seeing him as an addict. You are dealing with the addiction - not the person."
I told her as much about Stephen as I could remember and recounted a number of other instances which I had witnessed or known about over the years. The more I disclosed the clearer a lot of strange things became and she started to piece things together as she realized she had been oblivious to so much.
She realized Barry had been keeping very strange hours for a long time; up or out all night and asleep all day. The fidgeting, fast talking and scratching, the glassy eyes and the dramatic weight loss. Most of his personal possessions were gone and many of hers had disappeared as well. The phone often rang late at night and Barry would whisper into it, the calls were very short and he would leave the house soon after. She no longer knew the people who would call, but they were often quiet abrupt when she said Barry was not home. Sometimes he would eat nothing for days and other times he would eat ravenously and laugh uncontrollably at nothing in particular. He started wearing long sleeved shirts on hot days. He also seemed to have been having a lot of bad luck lately; he had been mugged a couple of times, had money stolen or cheques bounced, he had been unable to get home a few times and seemed to be falling out with a lot of people.
He also seemed to be having a lot of good luck as well, often he made a lot of extra money or people seemed to be giving him a lot of stuff and he had suddenly made a lot of new friends and had become every outgoing and popular.
When she asked him about some of these things he gave answers which didn't make sense, but if she pushed it he would become angry or turn on her and accuse her of calling him a liar or not trusting him. Sometimes it became so tense that he would turn and walk out, and in the end she was stunned when he would verbally abuse her and swear at her, which he had never done before. He had become so moody that she was often feeling anxious when he was home.
Sometimes he would be enthusiastic about a new idea he had, and excited about the potential money he was about to make and then a day or two later he had gone off that idea and couldn't get out of bed. He took to wearing headphones most of the time and she was sure it was to avoid speaking with her and he also spent most of his time at home, alone in his room. His bedroom often had a strange smell to it, but he said he was using insense or room deodorizers.
A year or two has passed since the initial call from Barry's mother and during this time he has had a series of therapies and varying degrees of success. Last year he was fortunate enough to be referred to a clinic and a Doctor who managed to change everything for him. Today he is drug free, healthy, wiser and happier than he has ever been.
During this time Barry and I talked often and as much as I would like to say I helped him, I did nothing other than observe and listen, the truth is that his experience, insight and honesty helped me enormously. I believe that his experience and his ability and willingness to share that experience with others will also be of great benefit to many of the people he may be able to reach in the future.
The amazing thing about Barry is that he is able to chase down his demons; sit with them, inspect and analyse them, work through the fear and confusion of them, and then come through and articulate the experience. The combination of intelligence, courage, insight and humility is phenomenal. Barry has walked through hell and back and he paid attention to every detail along the way. His hope in telling his story is that others may be saved from travelling down this path.
Yesterday Barry and I sat for many hours and I asked him if he would mind if I asked him point blank questions. I could have sourced a great deal of information from research, but I knew that Barry would give me real insight rather than an academic blah, blah, blah.
Of course the two big questions I wanted to know were "Why did you get into drugs and what was it that made the decision to quit".
He jumped right in on his decision to quit by opening his arms out wide and looking me in the eye "I wanted to live".
"I had overdosed a couple of times before and believe it or not I was too embarrassed to get help. I was also concerned about being busted or having my friends implicated. I didn't want my family to know nor did I want information on my medical records. I just believed I could get through it by myself and perhaps on some level I may have also not cared deeply enough if I lived or died."
"There was something different - more serious this time, I don't know what it was, but on a deep, deep level I knew the question was written there, `This is the real deal, do you stay or go?' and I knew it would be the last time I would have a choice".
"I think I was semi-conscious, it was like an out of body experience and in a way I was observing myself as well as experiencing myself. The experience was of great panic and I felt my body shutting down and at the same time I was watching as my organs stopped functioning. I felt like my heart was racing and pounding hard in my chest and yet at the same time I felt like it was stopping altogether. I wanted to speak, but I couldn't get enough air to breath, all I could do was silently call out for help. Nothing is more frightening than silent screaming!"
"I'm not sure how I got to the hospital, but I seem to remember everyone in the waiting room turned to look at me and people ran in slow motion towards me. I thought to myself `I've made it' and then I slipped away.
Is this when you started the treatment?
"Yes, and I really committed myself to giving it all I had. I had promised myself, my family and God that this time I would do it with every fibre of my being. I slipped though, and for months I would go in spurts; falling down and then climbing back up only to fall back down again."
"Over the years I had done a lot of damage to myself physically, but with the drugs I was rarely aware of the pain and hadn't paid a lot of attention to it. Without the drugs I was in physical pain and on many occasions I could feel my heart stop. I felt like I would pass out and would lie down, hold my breath and push down into my heart to start it up again. I had also lost a lot of weight and often just felt weak and sickly."
"The hardest part is controlling the mind and the emotions. I was obsessed with watching myself and had a continual dialogue going in my mind every minute of the day. The days are very long as well, I rarely slept, and all the time my head just kept talking about why I should or shouldn't have a taste. Emotionally, I was destroyed, I was beyond despair and I will never be able to put into words how frightening that can be."
"Socially there are problems as well; my friends were drug related so I needed to avoid them, but at the same time I missed them and experienced great loneliness. They understood me and I believe they loved me, they were my source of fun and entertainment. Drug friends are not judgemental and they provide empathy like no one else can. The social dynamics are exciting, interesting and stimulating. Straight people all have opinions and lots of advice, but the underlying disapproval is loud and clear and although they don't mean to, they really make you feel like less than nothing."
Methadone seems to be the standard treatment but it appears to be a less than perfect solution. Why did it work for you this time when it hadn't before?
"Methadone takes the edge off and allows you to at least function more normally. It is also strictly monitored and you must undergo testing to prove you are not taking other things as well. The theory is that the dose can be gradually reduced over time until you can withdraw from the addiction completely. It is often also recommended that some form of psychotherapy should be employed to address the emotional or underlying factors.
"I lucked out when I met Dr Neil Beck in his clinic in Perth. Dr Beck discovered I had Bipolar and explained that this was very common with alcoholics and drug addicts which is why it is one of the first things he looks for when he does his initial examination."
Bipolar is a new name for manic depression. People with bipolar experience depression so deeply that they can become suicidal or at least experience such despair that they just can't think straight. Barry has mentioned that ever since childhood he has thought it was normal to feel this self-loathing, panic, hopelessness and isolation. His sense of loneliness has ached into his bones and lasted for many days at a time. He recalls how he needed to lock himself away for days in a dark room and just try to go invisible. It's a screaming sense of abandonment; so great that you feel you are dropping into an endless pit of nothing and disappearing.
He describes it as "Being a black spot - falling into a black tunnel and no one knows you exist and no one will ever rescue you."
The flip side of bipolar is that you swing the other way and experience a God-like sense of yourself. You become a genius, you're invincible and energized. A sense of peace and love or euphoria fills you and you can conquer the world. It's quite common to think that this aspect of bipolar is a good thing - but it's not. The `Super Me' phase of bipolar often leads to reckless decisions and very bad consequences. Often people with bipolar will spend all their money or use credit cards during this manic period. They will initiate business deals or sign contracts or make promises which won't be kept. They are also likely to try dangerous things as they feel invincible.
I knew as soon as Barry explained bipolar to me that he was explaining Stephen's behaviour to me. If only...
What is the relationship between Bipolar and drug addiction.
"Well, I, like most others, did not know that I had bipolar and although I was desperately unhappy and isolated as a child I just accepted that the despair I often felt was normal. The connection between the two is self medication. I guess my first addiction was with food as I was quite chubby as a child. In my early teens I discovered alcohol and for many years I drank in binges until I passed out, but again I did not recognize this as self medicating myself. I suppose drugs were just a natural progression. Food gave comfort, alcohol deadened or disguised the pain and drugs gave more of an instant lift with the added benefit of feeling a sense of happiness and vitality. Unfortunately all three have a reverse side and therein lies a most destructive cycle. All three can become addictive and as Dr Beck pointed out, "People with bipolar (or similar conditions) resort to self medication and those forms of medication can become highly addictive. If bipolar could be diagnosed much sooner and people were given proper treatment we would not have to wait for a drug or alcohol crisis before they seek help."
Were you aware that you were using drugs to self medicate?
"No, well at least not consciously, in the beginning it was more about peer pressure; a need to fit in, but mostly it was just about partying. I don't think anyone ever takes drugs believing they are using them for some sad, pathetic, psychological reasons nor does anyone really believe they will get hooked. It's just about being young, being cool or having fun and being accepted."
What was your reaction when you found out about Bipolar?
"Anger and embarrassment; I had enough shame and self-loathing going on at the time with the overdose saga, I was very, very sick and overwhelmed by the task of getting straight. The last thing I needed to hear was that I had a brain disorder; that I was mental, a retard or psycho nut case."
"I didn't tell anyone, but over a short period of time I found myself reflecting on my life and although I would never go to one of those group therapy sessions or see a shrink I did start to acknowledge patterns of erratic behaviour and spent a great deal of effort trying to analyse myself."
"Men don't do all that emotional shit and all that talking about feelings. My initial take on it all was that the brain is just another body organ and mine was deficient in some chemical. On a practical level I saw the sense in replacing those chemicals the way one would do if they had a vitamin deficiency."
"A few weeks into treatment had me feeling more balanced and in control than I could remember. I had been doing a lot of thinking and had started to talk to people, not openly, but more like putting out feelers and sensing responses. I began to realize that I needed to talk, I wanted to understand things, I wanted to be honest and real with myself and I needed people to be honest with me."
"I didn't want to expose my vulnerabilities, I had always felt shunned and judged by people and I couldn't bear it if people knew there was something mentally wrong with me. Was there something wrong with me? I hung on to the chemical imbalance idea as it was so matter of fact and practical and treatable, but the psychology of it all was demanding attention. I needed to know who I really was, who I was supposed to be, how or if I belonged, why was I so desperately lonely or unlovable, who or what was ruling my life and the answerless questions just kept on coming. I needed to talk, I was now desperate to talk - I needed to talk to myself, I needed to know myself, I needed to decide who I wanted to be and how to be that."
"The treatment, medication and support from the clinic gave me the balance and calmness to be able to get a better grasp on reality. No more soaring high and crashing low, in fact I was actually quite happy and content most of the time. I had spent many months focusing only on getting well, I was eating for health rather than comfort and treating myself gently and respectfully. I discovered a huge range of emotions, beliefs and conditions which made up the sum total of who and how I was, and why I felt the way I did. I could see how destructive and distorted the drug influence was and I could also see the extremes of the bipolar influence so I needed to separate those from the real emotions."
"Every insight seemed to throw me back to some childhood experience which annoyed me greatly. I had always thought people were really self indulgent and used childhood dramas as an excuse for continuing childish behaviour. Even when dealing with myself I found myself chastising myself and making statements like `get over it, grow up, be a man or let it go' but it all just kept gnawing away at me."
Did you ever or do you think you will ever get to the root of it all?
"I'm changing and growing everyday and I am more aware and more definite and committed to where I want to go, but it is an ongoing work and I don't think anyone ever has all the answers. I do see that were I am now is the result of where I have been and I now have a greater understanding of where that was."
"From this point I can make changes because I have a greater understanding of what created what, and what was real. In a way, I feel like I have met with the child that I was and we have spoken honestly and lovingly to each other. This may sound corny, but I will say it because it is true, `I told the boy I loved him and I was so proud of him and so sorry I allowed him to be so hurt. The child wants me to be happy and asks that I find love and allow myself to love.' I made that a promise and the way I see it is that the child that I was, the man that I am and the human being that I will become, are all working together to find a real purpose in life and experience the best that life offers."
"There are two words that just kept coming at me, no matter what the event or issue or emotional response was, it was always about abandonment or isolation. Abandonment and isolation has ruled and ruined my life and permeates every aspect of my awareness of myself and my reality. I could sit and talk to you for days on end and recount over and over the things that have happened which reinforced that I was alone. At the core of aloneness is the deep belief that I am unloved and unlovable. To be unloved and unlovable breaks down to I am nothing in the eyes of God - Whatever and whoever God may be, but as a concept of the creator and ruler of the Universe that interprets as `I am nothing'."
What you just said is huge and I'm sure it will take me some time to digest exactly what you mean - if I can. Where does this leave you now?
"To believe that you are nothing is to believe that you have no value at all, no right to be here and everything you do is motivated by an unconscious need to self destruct. Being a dead something has to be better than being an alive nothing, don't you think?"
"Initially things must have happened to create that belief system, right or wrong, I was a child and it may have been true or it might have just been a child's interpretation of something quite different. None the less, it was self perpetuating and just a vicious cycle reinforcing itself. In a way my whole life has been a lie and with the added confusion of the bipolar and drug and alcohol influences it's pretty clear to me that I didn't have a clue about what was real."
"What I do know for sure now is that from here on I take the reins and get control. I don't know who has been selling me what and I don't know who is authentic or what is true for everyone else. My suspicion is that we have all been sold some faulty goods and if people could be more honest and open we might find that I am not alone. How secure is everyone? Who really feels supported by life? Can we even define love? Oh, we ache for it alright, we know it's essential and it probably motivates everything we do, think, want or need. We all know it's within us to love and be loved, and I think we all sense that our existence depends on love. But what is its true definition?"
"The abandonment and isolation or loneliness that I mentioned is about disconnection. All my life I have ached for someone, anyone, to love me or even just allow me to love them. I have always put a person in the position of the source of love. What I do know is that love is not reliant on another person at all, and with this understanding I am left with the question of what is the definition of love. What indeed is the creator's definition of love?"
You spoke earlier about suicide and the difficulty for men to talk about personal issues. Recently we have noticed an alarming rise in male suicides and I wonder what your view on this is?
"There are lots of questions within these questions and my first thoughts are how many suicides resulted from undiagnosed depression, bipolar, post traumatic stress disorders or other mental health issues. Why are these things still taboo and why do they still go undiagnosed or misdiagnosed. How many suicides are drug and alcohol related and how preventable could these have been. Why do men continue to play `the macho man' roles when they are so destructive? Why do we still treat boys so differently and continue to insist that boys don't cry. Why won't men discuss anything other than work, money, cars, sport, food and sex when they are with other men? Do drugs cause suicide or does despair cause drug problems which leads to suicide? Why are men still so violent? Why can't men accept that they are human and that it is a good thing?"
"When I really wanted to talk I really wanted to talk with other males. I wanted to compare what I felt with their feelings. I guess I wanted a role model or a sense of what was normal. Women are great to talk with, but I didn't want to become one, I wasn't thinking about being human or that men and women were the same. I defined myself as a man and wanted to know what a normal man felt. Women seem to read behind the lines, they empathise and listen in a way that men just can't seem to get to. Women ask more questions or better questions and encourage you to go on. Women put themselves in your position and come up with all kinds of reactions and possibilities. When I initiated conversations with men they usually made a joke of what I said or they would say "Don't worry about it mate, have a couple of beers and forget it."
"Sure I was wanting `a deep and meaningful' but I just couldn't get men to show any depth. Recently, I have been thinking about the bipolar from the manic side rather than the depression side of things. I understand that when I used to swing high I would get into areas of delusion or grandeur, but I am also aware that many people who experience this state can also tap into great genius. Many sufferers of bipolar are artists, musicians, writers and exceptional thinkers. Now that the bipolar has been stabilized I would love to speak with others and explore great ideas and try new things and really take advantage of this potential, but without the unreal or delusional aspects. I would really just like to talk with men with ideas or goals or talents. I want to strive to be exceptional and experience the richness and diversity of life, but it's just so bloody hard to get men to talk, express themselves or wander outside the box!"
"Having said all that I will also add that I am generalising and it's not always true of all men. Maybe my approach was a little confrontational at first and I have recognized that quite often men will open up after they have had time to think about it. Often I have found men will come back to me days or weeks later and answer questions that they originally pulled away from. Sometimes I get the best response when I keep things simple or speak hypothetically rather than personally. Recently I have made some great friendships and we talk long, deep and openly, but it took time and I believe it required trust and honesty."
You're clean now, balanced and healthy, but how certain are you that it will last?
"I'm absolutely certain. I am also aware that I can afford to be certain right now because life is good right now; I'm excited, healthy and happy, so it's easy to be certain. I'm no fool though, and I am very aware that a lifetime habit of reaching for a quick fix will be a big problem if and when things get crazy again. I understand that things will hurt me and life will of course deal out some hard hits along the way. The main difference is that drugs, alcohol and bipolar all exaggerated and distorted things before - that's under control now. I'm better equipped now and I do not have to fight against myself, understanding and caring about myself makes a great difference."
"I'm not so self absorbed anymore and I am very interested in giving out rather than desperately trying to sustain or protect myself. I want to help others and I am happy and willing to tell my story or use my experience to do that. And this may sound a bit contradictory, but I don't want to be known as the guy with bipolar nor do I want to be known as an ex-junkie. Too often, I see people with a tragic past and they somehow become defined by that. They are only fragments of a life; they are not what makes a person. We all have our stuff and unfortunately my stuff was this, but it's not tattooed on my forehead, and my future doesn't need to relate back to this forever and ever." Copyright Sonya Green Jan 2006 www.reinventingmyself.com
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