Manic Depression and Me: A Bipolar Primer

I was thinking about my barrage of Facebook posts yesterday. Tirades, jokes, rants, and silliness—all in the span of an afternoon. It’s called bipolar. It’s called rapid cycling.

It’s not a matter of being in a good mood one day and down the next. It’s much more intense, sometimes more rapid and always exhausting.

For me, the ups can feel like you’re in the spin cycle of a washing machine with a pair of tennis shoes thrown in to beat you even harder. Spin, spin, spin. Throw in the noise from Chuck E. Cheese and a carousel turned up to 11 and you may start to get the idea. It gets so bad that you just want your claw your way out of your body to escape.

The downs are crushing, like the weight of a thousand cement bags being placed upon you one by one. You feel like crying for no reason at all. You’re paralyzed. There is no sound. Death can’t come soon enough.

Both of these moods can happen in succession over the span of a month or a week—even an afternoon.

Mania can result in all sorts of crazy behavior. Heavy drinking, drugs, maniacal laughter, risky sex, lots of shopping, crazy racing thoughts (good or bad), delusions of grandeur,  or just skittering from one direction to another getting absolutely nothing done.

Depressive behavior doesn’t result in much of anything—just isolation, despair, sometimes even feeling too down to cry.

For me, a regimen of drugs has helped (60 pounds later), so has therapy, but I still have my moments when nothing or no one can snap me out of it. I just have to wait for the insanity to pass. I crawl into bed or sit in a chair clutching onto the arms for dear life. It can take an entire day or more of just sitting and breathing to recuperate from one of these episodes. I’m doing that today, as a matter of fact. As I said before—it’s exhausting.

I was diagnosed as bipolar 20 years ago. I had a one-sided crush on a guy that sent me over the edge. I was suicidal and shopping myself into a frenzied debt. I was the life of the party by day and curled up in a ball at night. One night while bowling I was in all of my hysterical glory. I had my whole team laughing. I went to roll the ball. After I did, I turned around and hated every one of my teammates and just wanted to go home.

This is my life as a Jeckyll and Hyde.

People toss around the terms bipolar and manic-depressive flippantly when referring to their or others’ ups and downs. This cavalier attitude drives me nuts. They don’t toss around cancer or diabetes with so much nonchalance. This is a real disease, folks, a life threatening one.

So please do me a favor. Next time you see me and I’m down, don’t tell me to smile. Give me a hug instead. Next time you remind me how funny I used to be, know that I was probably being tortured from the inside. These days, I’m doing better. The extremes are gone but I still have my moments and probably always will.

Anyway, I hope this post isn’t a downer. That it isn’t isn’t a funny, wistful walk down memory lane. I just wanted to show you another side (or two) of me.

Thanks for your time.

One Tuesday in Sydney

The Salt Lake Men’s Choir was in Sydney for the International Gay Games as part of their cultural festival. It was October and spring was on its way. The jacaranda were breathtaking and the locals were beginning to mill about in shirtsleeves,

We were scheduled to do a little performance at a train station. None of us were too crazy about singing to a handful of people with all the background noise and hubbub, but we did our best to sing over the din of the masses. We sang show tunes, folk tunes, and spirituals. The performance was just so-so since we could barely hear ourselves. The crowd could barely hear us either. They just hurried by and paid no attention to our music. They had better places to be.

But the mood changed when a woman came up to us afterward. She had been sitting on a bench a few feet away from us listening the whole time. She thanked us for the music and told us that “Climb Every Mountain” was one of her brother’s favorite songs. A month prior, he had announced to the family that he was gay and it didn’t go well. He committed suicide. As she sat on the bench and listened to us sing, she was overcome with the feeling for the first time that her brother was at peace. We all cried together. She missed her train and that was okay.

On the way back to the hotel, Kim and I stopped to do some shopping and ended up at a pub across the street where a bunch of the choir guys were having drinks. As we sat there, two girls walked by with the medals around their necks they had just won. For swimming, if memory serves me correctly. We asked where they were from and they answered “Australia!” Silver medals didn’t gain the acclaim for them that gold would have so we decided to honor them ourselves. We stood them on a chair and belted out the Aussie National Anthem with all our might in tribute. The crowd went wild—except for an Italian gent who brooded that we hadn’t sung anything in Italian. We treated him to an a cappella version of “Va Pensiero.” He cried. So did the rest of the crowd.

That Tuesday in Sydney was one of the best days of my life—good friends, great music and lots of hugs. Funny, after all these years, that an afternoon spent making people cry can bring such a smile to my face.

Crack, crack!

One Easter, when Mark, David and I were little, my Grandpa gave us each a duckling. They were fuzzy and yellow and cute as the dickens as they skittered about our yard on Bishop Place. I suspect that Grandpa gave them to us more for his own enjoyment as he watched them from his house across the alley. They were the plain white variety and therefore safe from any threat of his 12 gauge.

As they grew, they became sort of a pain in the ass. They were noisy. They would molt. Our yard wasn’t fenced so they would follow my Mom down the block to the store. They would poop in our wading pool. They were awful.

One day, we came home to find the ducks staggering wackily around the yard. “Quaaack, quooook, quuuuzhk!” they squawked. Their necks were wobbling and one  had one wing dragging on the ground. 

“What the..?” Mom said and ran across the alley to get Grandpa, the duck expert.

They came running back and Grandpa took a gander at them. Then he burst into a great big belly laugh. “What’s going on?” Mom asked. Grandpa pointed at our garden at the mound of poppy stems—stems that were completely devoid of any blossoms...or opium seeds.

“Your ducks are as drunker than hoot owls!” he guffawed.

Those quack whores.

Roland

He was the living, breathing version of Elmer Fudd—about 5’2”, 60ish, with sad eyes and a kind, droopy face. He even had that silly, gravelly voice. His name was Roland. I don’t know where Mom and Frank found him. I think they brought him home from the bar one night as another one of their souvenirs. He seemed harmless enough.

Back in the thirties, Roland was a graphic designer and illustrator. One day, he bought over some of his pen and ink portfolio to show us. I wasn’t too impressed at the time, even though I was a budding artist, but what I would give to have those illustrations in my money-grubbing hands now.

Roland loved to dance. At my parents’ house parties, he was constantly asking Mom to cut a rug. My guess was that his small stature would plant his face squarely into Mom’s bosom.

One day, he said to her “Hey, Kaffy, can the boys come over and wassle?” Mom said “Sure,” not batting an eye at such an odd request. ”Gweat. I’ll bwing them back in a while.” So Mark and I went to Roland’s house—a big white bungalow on the bank of the Jordan River. We got out of his too-big-for-him sedan and stood in the driveway thinking it was all pretty weird.

“Would you boys like some wazberrries?” he asked. We said no. We just wanted to get this wrestling Battle Royale out of the way.

We went to his dark, knick-knack filled living room. Roland moved the coffee table out of the way and took his stance—knees bent and arms outstretched like a gwizzly bear. Mark was the first to go and had him pinned in a matter of seconds. Now, Mark was no gladiator, but neither was Roland. I just stood there in a bit of disbewief.

Next it was my turn. Roland struck the pose again, but now huffing and puffing. I lunged at him and had him pinned in a matter of seconds, too. It was actually pretty pathetic. His red face and frightened eyes pleaded for me to get off of him like this was all a really bad idea.

I climbed off. He shook our hands. “Well, I guess I should get you boys home, he said, dusting himself off. “Are you sure you don’t want some wazberries?” 

“No,” we said. We just wanted to get back to Pueblo Street and get that Looney Tunes afternoon out of our heads.

Double Date

Back when I was straight (or at least trying to convince myself as such), I went on a date with my friend Joyce to see Hall and Oates in concert. They were playing at the BYU Marriott Center. Corey “Mr. Sunglasses at Night” Hart as the opening act. It was bound to be a great evening, and it better well have been since we had to drive an hour to get there.

We descended the cool concrete steps of the arena into the sea of blue plastic seats. Joyce sat to my right. Some BYU guy sat on my left with his girlfriend to the left of him. The lights went dim. The music started.

After way too much Corey Hart, Hall and Oates came on to the stage to the wild applause of the crowd. They kicked off with their opening number. We sat down for the show and my knee brushed the knee of BYU guy. No biggie. It happens that way.

They sang “Rich Girl” but changed the words “bitch girl” to something more appropriate for their G-Rated audience. It so happened that one of them was not-so-G-Rated as the leg brush soon turned to a game of footsie. Joyce and BYU Guy’s girlfriend both listened happily and obliviously—clapping and singing along to “Maneater.”

“Your Kiss is On My List” led to a match of pinky wrestling and by the time they got to “Sara Smile,” BYU Guy and I were standing, holding hands, swaying with the rest of the crowd, unbeknownst to the girls at our sides. We sat back down, feeling guilty yet titillated. I can’t go for that—No Can Do!

When the concert ended, my new friend and I just looked at each other with a plaintive parting gaze as he disappeared into the crowd.

“She’s Gone” played in my head as Joyce and I—along with a strange, newfound desire to enroll at BYU—drove home.

Blue Ribbons and Diving Mules

Our family stood at the side of our house with binoculars in hand. When it got to be my turn to look, I would peer through the lenses to see them—the paratroopers with colored smoke a-blazing signified that the Utah State Fair was in full swing. In a matter of days the Perry-Munson clan would be crashing the party.

We would wander through the commercial booths marveling at the man who would melt a penny with a blow torch to show the quality of his fiberglass insulation. We’d throw a dart in hopes of winning a small bag of potato chips and fill a plastic tote bag with all sorts of brochures and calling cards. We planned to read up on coal stove and gazebo companies later, but by the time we got to the midway, the bags ended up in the trash.

The midway was amazing. Where else could you see the World’s Tiniest Horse, a Two-Headed Baby and a Diving Mule all within the span of a half an hour? A man with a jet pack would sail overhead to the wild applause of the astonished crowd.

The carnival games were rigged but we had a good time with them anyway. One year, my siblings and I won at least one goldfish apiece, much to the chagrin of Mom and Frank who asked “just what in the hell we were going to do with all of them.” They all ended up in our backyard pond but died a week later when Mom cleaned it with too much Clorox.

Then there was the Bandstand. It was the little stage in the middle of he fairgrounds where you could see all sorts of burgeoning talent. Our junior high Special Ed teacher, Mr. Gnadt juggled chainsaws one year. Another year we watched a little group of unknowns  called the Oak Ridge Boys. But the bandstand’s big moment in history came in 1971 when mom, in true Gypsy Rose Lee fashion, dragged me kicking and screaming up to the stage to be part of the freckle contest. I still remember Cupcake the Clown proclaiming that I was that year’s winner. I won a crown, a trophy and a front page story in the next morning’s Salt Lake Tribune.

The Grandstand was the crown jewel of the fairgrounds—the stage where all of the big acts would play. Candy Candido was the manic, mustachioed emcee every year. The older segment of the audience thought his shtick was a hoot. We kids just rolled our eyes at his lameness. The Starland Vocal Band—a one-hit wonder—played there one night and made the mistake of singing “Afternoon Delight” at the top of their program. Sensing there were no more hits on the way, the crowd evacuated in a quiet and orderly fashion. I still remember one of the singers pleading for us to “please stay.”

One year, Hank Snow was the headliner. Mom and Frank loved him and brought along an album for him to autograph. A security guard said “No way.” As the guard stood at Hank’s trailer door, Mom told us kids to go off and create a ruckus to distract him. We did and Mom ran up the trailer and got Mr. Snow’s autograph.

My favorite part of the fair was visiting the Fine Arts building with my friend Brian. There is nothing more fun for a snobby artiste than mocking other “less-thans.” Fawns in pine trees, Picasso-esque portraits of grandma with two eyes on the side of her head, an eagle riding a cougar were just a sampling of the masterpieces that would give us the church giggles so bad we had to run from the building and guffaw until our guts hurt. 

Those were the glory days. I’ve only been to the fair once in the last twenty years or so. That evening, when a few of my cosmopolitan friends sauntered through the livestock barn, a cow was lying on her side, mooing in agony. Her body was heaving and her eyes were rolling in the back of her head. Obviously, she was about to give birth. In awe, we stood there for the better part of fifteen minutes until we grew bored and headed for the beer booth. Later on, our curiosity got the best of us and we returned to the barn. Farmer Joe was sweeping hay in the stall, whistling like nothing had happened. We asked if Bossie had had her calf. He replied “Oh, that? She had him this morning. She was just trying to expel her placenta.” Well, a half dozen dry-heaving queens is not a common occurrence at such a bucolic affair. We ran screaming “ewww!” all the way to the zucchini building.

Today, I have plans to return one more time to the fair. Rumor has it that its days are numbered. My friends have reminded me what a fun, kitschy, deep-fried event it can be. Alas, my freckles have faded so there will be no trophy this year. I have no need for a coal stove or a gazebo. Let’s see if the carny can at least guess my weight. 

Somewhere between a Vietnamese potbelly and Big Bill, the Poland China Hog.

My Favorite Things

This week, a meme has been circling around the internets asking to list our favorite books. Since I haven’t been able to read a book in nine years (and even before that it was pretty hit and miss), my list was pretty so-so. So I’ve decided to list my Top 10 in categories that I do know something about—that I’m passionate about. It might bore some of you. Others may be compelled to share some faves of your own (or trash the ones I’ve chosen). 

So here they are! ... My Top Ten!  ... alphabetically! ... at least for today! ...

Movies

Bagdad Cafe

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Moulin Rouge

Pennies From Heaven

The Shawshank Redemption

Sunset Boulevard

The Trip

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane

Waiting for Guffman

Whale Rider

TV

The Carol Burnett Show

CBS Sunday Morning

Evening at Pops—Kern, Gershwin, Porter

Motown 25

The Muppet Show

Picket Fences

The Point

Six Feet Under

Strangers in Good Company

The Urban Elephant

Music

Air on a G String—Bach

Adagio—Barber

In the Still of the Night—Porter

Make Our Garden Grow—Bernstein

Nature Boy—Nat King Cole

Over the Rainbow—by just about anybody

Rhapsody In Blue — Gershwin

Smalltown Boy—Bronski Beat

Unfinished Life—Kate Wolf

Vincent—Don McLean

Musical Theatre

Book of Mormon

Carousel

Company

Evita

Fiddler on the Roof

How to Succeed in Business...

Les Miserables

Madama Butterfly

Miss Saigon
Sideshow

Okay 11... Will Rogers Follies

Albums

Between the Lines—Janis Ian

Close to You—Kate Wolf

Duets—Ripley and Skinner

Gold—ABBA

Greatest Hits—Sons of the Pioneers

A Night at the Opera—Queen

Rachmaninoff Vespers—Robert Shaw

Stardust—Willie Nelson

Stories—Maura O’Connell

Sympathique—Pink Martini

Bonus Tracks: Any of k.d. lang’s early stuff

Art & Photo

Marc Chagall

Charley Harper

Al Hirschfeld

David LaChapelle

Joan Miro

Pablo Picasso

Robert Risko

Herb Ritts

Henri Rousseau

Vincent Van Gogh

Food

Burgers

Bread Pudding

Chicken and Dumplings

Risottto

The Dodo’s Artichoke Pie

Mom’s Pot Roast

Roger’s Ribs

Salmon

Anything Indian

Anything Thai

Drink

Coffee

Earl Grey

Egg Nog

Gin and Tonic

Iced Tea

Lemonade (fresh)

Margarita

Pinot Noir

Sauvignon Blanc

Water

Smells  

Campfire

Clean Sheets

Clove Cigarettes

Coffee Roasting

Fennel

Lilacs

Lumber

New Car

Pinion

Rain

Oh, and here are my Books...

An Unquiet Mind—Jamison

Homecoming—Bradshaw

Little Black, A Pony—Farley

Memoir From Ant-Proof Case—Helprin

Naked—Sedaris

Of Mice and Men — Steinbeck

The Object of My Affection—McCauley

Of Mice and Men—Steinbeck

The Prophet—Gibran

The Stand—King

Where the Wild Things Are—Sendak

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