Bipolar Disorder: A View From the Inside

Illusions in Lavender was the most difficult story I ever tried to write. I must have set it down a dozen times, driven by the same reluctance I feel writing this post, now. No matter how much research or editing is involved, writing about experiencing a mental illness can never be easy--especially for someone who takes pride in mental abilities.

Fifteen years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Since then, I've learned to recognize the cycles of passion and despair as complex interactions between my body, my brain, and the environment around me. To some degree, I've also learned to keep them under control. (I've been treated with lithium, depakote, and other medications in the past, but no single treatment has been very effective in my case.)

This story is not about overcoming bipolar disorder, or anything that triumphant. On the other hand, it gets right to the heart of it, and describes the struggle of the symptoms, the cyclical feelings and changing perspectives.

It's a strange thing to seem to even say... that you can change your perspective, your viewpoint on the world, at the tip of a hat. It isn't like seeing the world through new eyes, but like the world itself has suddenly changed.

At one stage, you're eager to consume to all that you see, not a feast of food, but a feast of sensation.... colors, forms, sound, feelings, information... as much as you can get. You may think "manic" and picture a mad grin, but it isn't necessarily a drive for giggly happiness. You can indulge in pain and sorrow as easily as glee...the manic consumptive desire isn't picky. You just have to feel.

But then the world turns upside down. You don't really need a reason... The trigger can be stress or something as simple as a falling leaf. The next thing you know, the celebration of sensation fades into the night. The world is left dirty, cracked, and broken. The color has drained somewhere else. You don't seem to fit, and neither do the rest of the pieces. You don't want to feel, or see how others see--you just want to hide.

The following short story is a narrative of these cycles. The scenes are fiction, but the bipolar influence is real.

Illusions in Lavender

By Karmen Lee Franklin

The walls were a terribly drab shade of lavender this morning. I used to love that color, reminiscent of ribbons on girl's dresses, or old bottles on Grandma's vanity. Coating this empty room, however, the lavender reminded me of the outlines of a bruise. A window, a painting, or some object d'art might have broken the monotonous hue, but there wasn't even a spot for such a thing to rest. Even the edges of the floor, without a rug, spread out and upwards, joining seamlessly with the ceiling. This lack of any sort of decoration caused the room to seem like a bubble-a giant, purple blister-with me trapped inside.

If it was a trap, I was unaware of how I fell in. It happened so long ago, I wasn't sure that I hadn't always been there. I wondered if the memories that haunted me inside were merely dreams or fantasies. I remember when the room turned red...

Aegri somnia... those troubled dreams.

This is a nightmare. Love wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? We sipped red wine and made love by the fire, and again, later, on satin sheets. He hadn't thought to buy flowers, so I brought the roses myself, but I pricked my finger on a thorn as I arranged them into the vase. I look at the spot of dried blood on the tip as I wrap my arms around him. I try to run my fingers through the locks of hair that dangle on his neck, but I can't help but notice the blood.

He can tell I'm distracted, and he pulls away. I continue staring at my finger, squeezing it gently with my other hand, to open the wound. A fresh drop of blood beads on my fingertip before it falls onto my thigh. There, it spreads slightly, a crimson spot on my ivory skin. My face twists in pain, not from the wound, but from my understanding. I created this fantasy, and all flaws within it were mine. Still, I felt inclined to blame him, and he is ready to fight as well, and so we do. In the midst of the yelling and anger, he picks up his glass of wine and hurls it at the fireplace. The fragrant liquid drips down the bricks of the hearth, a deeper hue of red splattered on red. I scream, and the pain in my head washes over my vision like a curtain of blood. Oh God, this can't be real.

De profundis... I return to the room.

Vivid images, of family or choices or struggles, of decisions and pain, would come to me at the oddest hours (not that I had any way to track hours,) leaving a lump of helpless panic in the pit of my gut. Were there things I was supposed to be doing? My eyes searched that dull, lavender surface, trying to recall if these whispers of neglected responsibilities were veritable, or simply imagined, as when, with a burst of orange...

Aegri somnia... those troubled dreams.

I'm in a city, somewhere on the coast, I think... I can taste salt and ozone in the air. Skyscrapers stretch into the sky all around me, outlined by a hazy, rusted glow of the sunset beyond. The street would be dim, if not for the neon signs scattered around in immodest attempts to entice the stomach or the libido. A strange alpine glow is also reflected onto the street, for the sun still shines on the high tops of the buildings and the dense clouds of pollution above. The city seems to be in a sort of transition, between the bustle of commerce of the day, and the hustle of temptations and diversions of the night.

I can't help but feel like I'm supposed to be someplace else and so I press against the revolving doors and enter the nearest tower. I've been here many times before, it seems, and so I hardly notice the gift shop selling key chains and packs of cigarettes and little statues and shot glasses. I make my way to the elevator, where several others are waiting. They are carrying suitcases, and we exchange a polite nod as the doors slide open and we all step inside. I think for a moment that it seems strange, such a large hotel as this, not sending the bellhops to carry luggage, but then I realize they only have one bag each. Perhaps they are simply businessmen on an overnight trip, too sensible or cheap to tip a bellhop for a single bag. Before I can speculate about their business, however, the doors slide open again. This is my floor.

The elevator lobby for this floor is empty, and as the doors slide shut behind me for the last time, I feel suddenly alone. I'm still not sure why I am here, or exactly where here is, but I seem to know the way. The hallways are long and wide, and I guess that the rooms beyond are quite large, as the doors are few and far between. I can almost imagine the posh luxury inside, where travelers like the men in the elevator kick off their shoes and check their reports, while reclining on light brown leather chairs. I turn what I assume to be the last corner, but instead of another hallway, there is a closed bridge, crossing to the next building. I glance through the glass across the way, and watch for a moment as the reflection of the sunset is covered by shadow. I'm running out of time.

I hurry across the bridge, and find myself in the other building, where the hallways are narrow, and the carpets are the color of rust, and rather than luxury, I sense age and decay. I arrive at my room, and start to fumble for my key, but I notice the door is ajar. I barely raise my hand before it swings open, and I can see the room beyond is a wreck. I have to step around the heavy tan blankets and quilted bedcovers that have been carelessly flung on the floor; there isn't much free space. As I pass the television, I swivel it around to see the screen filled with static. Someone left it on, probably one of my roommates, carelessly leaving a movie to end by itself before leaving for some unknown destination.

I can't stand these people, I think, as I find my corner of the room, the bed still neatly made from the housekeeping service earlier in the day. I can't recall how they convinced me to come on this trip in the first place, or even who they are. I lean over the dresser, looking into the mirror, I can hardly recognize myself. I realize I don't want to do my makeup and I don't want to join them for a night out on the town... I'd just like to crawl into bed and escape this strange place. So I do. As I curl up under the thick layers, I imagine a room, bright and clean and empty. That's it, I think, perhaps this is all an ugly, dirty dream and I'm sleeping in there...

De profundis... I return to the room.

It was so easy to indict the images in those dreams that I once fancied that I could lay blame on them. Parents made easy targets for this exercise. Surely, it seemed, they were responsible for my failures, or indeed, for bringing me into this drab existence in the first place. At once, with a warm wave of yellow, I knew better.

Aegri somnia... those troubled dreams.

I'm only 12 years old, but I'm aware. I already know what I am to know for the rest of my life, the yellow sun is shining, and I feel quite content. I'm riding my bike through the field, and the wind is blowing my hair behind me, as if each strand is loosened by a tiny comb. The breeze is also combing the tall grass, and the field looks like a rippling flag. The air is dry and crisp, but the scene flows like water. It seems like I'm in a movie, following some epic script. I turn to the imaginary cameras that film me, and I begin to narrate.

"There is something secret and special here," I explain to my unseen viewer, "which only you and I can see. And that is why I am here... to be your guide, to explain what it is that you are seeing. I didn't create this story, but it is up to me to record it. I am the writer, and this is what I do... I write." I stroke the air with an imaginary pen and punctuate the sentence with a smile. My hands return to the handlebars, and I pedal on. My invisible words hover for a moment over the grass, until they are caught in my wake, and float away, joining the fragile yellow blossoms falling from the amber stalks.

This seems to be a perfect cut away from the scene, as if a director had called, "that's a wrap." I am so young, everything seems perfect and possible. They haven't told me yet that my dreams are a disease. It will be several years before they come into this field to take me away. The beams of sunshine here are still gleaming saffron... I haven't yet taken the pills that turn them a dull pastel hue. No, the world is still bright, full of hope and promise. If only I could stay young and certain forever.

De profundis... I return to the room.

Eventually, I played through the part of the parent for myself. This revealed that my parents had dreams of their own, as I grew, and as clichâ as it sounds, really did want the best for me. Since it was never their choice to send me to this room, they were innocent. So, I sought to lay the blame on those who had chosen to know me. Friends and lovers alike were often with me as I made the wrong decisions. They stood aside as I walked to the trap, and looked away as I fell in. They made no comment when I lied about the color of the walls. Such apathy was a crime... wasn't it?

Oh, how I laughed and cried at that paradox. This illusion was so tightly woven that even I couldn't see the intricate threads that held it together. If I could never see it; how could they? So the sky is blue, and hope, like sunshine, is yellow. See, my friends, how it shines all around? With that happy, deluded glow, I embroidered my dreams with silken garnishes, escaping reason and objectivity. When I began to admire the delicate threads and the complexity of the weavings, I gasped, as a flood of green washed over.

Aegri somnia... those troubled dreams.

It just stopped raining. The damp earth, in response to the slight change, seems to reach out with green arms, as if to embrace me in forest. This one is my favorite; I love the smells of the soil and spicy pines. I never want to leave here. The mountains, although tall and steep, seem to be gently rolling hills, rounded by the dense canopy of trees. I cross the road, which is simple black asphalt, but sparkles with dew, as if it were pebbled with gemstones.

There is a light fog, but not chilling, blanketing the valleys, and I think to myself, this is a magic place. On the other side of the road is a ditch, dug for drainage from the heavy storms, but teeming with life. An ancient tree sinks roots into the soil on the edge of the ditch. I think it has probably been there longer than I, perhaps longer than the road and the ditch itself. The roots of the tree hide a small pond, sheltered from the currents of the canal, shallow and green with algae. As I look closer, I can see tadpoles swimming beneath the surface. Some have legs already; they will soon be frogs. It strikes me as strange, that a single type of life can cycle through so many different forms. Have I changed as much?

I look back up at the trees, seeing how the patterns of branches seem to repeat themselves endlessly in each leaf. For a moment I can see myself as a child, having climbed with a friend to the highest branch of a particular tree. Looking at myself looking at the leaves, I remember this moment, and as if on cue, my companion turns to the small me in the tree and asks, "Do you dream in color?" The young me shrugs, but I want to yell out and answer. As I summon my courage to shout, however, the vision disappears, and all I can see are the branches and leaves and patches of sky beyond.

I wonder how humanity, however young, could have ever chosen to abandon a lush home like this, to build civilizations in the dry, dusty flatlands. The croak of a grown frog, deep with wisdom, reminded me how near the answer was. Change... the only true certainty. And, it seems, even as I watch, the world does change. I can now see houses, tucked into the hillsides, surrounded by carefully manicured and terraced lawns. One house seems to draw my attention, and I walk up the long steps to the door. I reach for the doorbell, but I catch my reflection in the tall panes of glass surrounding the door. Beyond, I can see elegant chandeliers and fine woven rugs, where separate staircases lead to the living and dining areas. It all seems too big, too extravagant, too much change, but then I realize, we still love to climb...

De profundis... I return to the room.

Stuck inside this place, trying to lay my accusations and blame, I cried in frustration. It proved to be futile to accuse anyone I knew, or anyone with whom I had shared bits of the best dreams. So, in vain, I pointed to the establishment. If those close to me were not to blame for the way things were, then some greater authority surely was. Their claims of responsibility seemed sincere enough-to care for, to support, and to guide the morality of the people-naturally, they were the cause of any failure of the people as well. I was unable to ignore the flaw in this charge, however, and so let it rest. I have seen many works of art in these dreams, the grotesquely beautiful, and the beautifully grotesque. No one can credit the clergyman or the politician for these creations, so how could I credit them for the aberrations?

What was this, then? Paradise or a trap? Were these walls concrete, or was this all an illusion? Without a cause or an answer, I was filled with a dark cloud of uncertainty, a fog of the deepest blue...

Aegri somnia... those troubled dreams.

The sky is a brilliant azure, and I can see small white discs of light, dancing like pixies on the air. Everything around me is an explosion of sensation... It isn't just the vivid colors, or the calls of the finches and sparrows mingling with the endless mutter of traffic into a strange but harmonic symphony. It isn't the warm fingers of sunlight stroking my skin, or the heady scent of marigolds. It is as if I can feel the pulse of the Earth itself... The rhythmic beating of all that is, as if this world was merely a cell in a giant vein, surging in step with a million others, like the little white discs of light before me.

I'm not alone... people are walking by, oblivious to the living masterpiece surrounding them and within them. They are surging along, too, but they don't notice. A child pauses before me... he seems to see it, but he is hurried along by his parents. As he passes, I feel a stirring in my abdomen, a light quickness, as if to remind me of the potential within. The children know this is a dream, don't they? If I had a child, could I see through his eyes? But the quickness passes, and my womb feels empty. Wasn't I a mother in a different dream? No one passing by seems to know.

They are wearing masks... Plain and ugly, these masks all have the same expression of a grim determination. None of them is real, they are all pretending. I wait for one to stop, to pull off his mask, and reveal himself. But I can hear them thinking, I'd like to stop and share this with you, to tell you who I really am, but I've got to get to the grocery store, or, I need a moment to stop and smell the flowers, but if I get this report in by four, I can get a drink with that new intern. They each hurry on their way, as false as the last, embodiments of childhood dreams forgotten. But they aren't real. I can tell... they don't feel alive... they're just figments of this dream.

There is a man nearby, carefully trimming a hedge. He is different, somehow. He's not acting in some role, as if someone told him to be a landscape technician and that was what he was supposed to do. No, he's a gardener, a true gardener, and you can see it in the way he clips. The hedge responds to his touch. Rather than leaving it bare and freshly cut, he seems to reveal some hidden beauty. A branch doesn't seem out of place until he removes it, leaving a perfect frame around new shoots. It is art in progress; the gardener sculpts potential.

He is talking to me, telling me about his ex-wife, about how she took the house and the cat and left him stunned and bitter, but doesn't it seem like it was for the best in the end? She'd been cheating on him for years, he says, but he doesn't seem to really care. He is telling me the details, but I'm not listening; all I can think about is the way he clips the hedge, stroking and encouraging it, rather than causing it pain. He's cutting with the pulse of the world, adding necessary notes to the symphony. Clip, clip, falling leaves. Clip, clip, falling leaves. He is in perfect sync, and I suddenly realize, unlike the passers-by, he knows. He knows this is all a dream... and he is smiling about it.

De profundis... I return to the room.

I gave up searching the illusions for answers; that was when the walls turned lavender. This ambivalent state sickened me with a nausea reflected by the pale hue. Things used to be so simple-just live and love, and let the world sort it out. That blind simplicity seemed quaint to me, as I stared at that ugly shade. Life, love-these things were merely figments of some fading dream. I could barely remember that spectrum, the deep crimsons and cobalt blues of passion, or the viridian brilliance of spring. All the memories of these colors were washed out by the mauvish shadow, as, reaching for understanding, I grasped nothing.

No one held the key to this prison. Without a lock, or even a door, how could they have put me inside, let alone even know I was there? The unbroken purple hue seemed a constant reminder of my helpless state. Only when my despair turned to anger, did I even catch a hint of intensity. From the corner of my eye, as I shouted at the barren walls, I saw brief glimpses of fuchsia. How did I get in here? I cried, with a sense of luminosity behind me. Why am I here? With a scream, I clutched my fingers to my eyes, but not quickly enough for that bright glimmer. Oh, how I hated it. But what could I do? Return to the dream?

Perhaps it could sense the spectral shift, caught in the wake of my emotional tides, but next, the vision began to tease. Spinning before me with a violent spectrum, I saw scraps of memories, both unkind and sinfully pleasant, weaving amidst strange possibilities. Even as dull and sick this pastel hue around me, how could I abandon it for this bizarre conglomeration of unrest? I pitied myself for being faced with such a choice. Nothing there was real, anyways, nothing that turns out like you expect. Chaos. The vision shook, and the room, as impossible as it seemed, became more lavender. Yes, I thought. Chaos.

But now... what was chaos, and what was reality? And where was I? Caught in between? I paced endlessly across the shapeless room, not searching for answers, for fear of what I might find. Eventually, my feet and my patience grew tired. I sat down on the floor, crossing my legs before me, and stared at the wall. Facing that pallid surface, I realized I could no more stay than I could return to the dreams. But how can one escape a room with no doors?

I knew suddenly, with another flare of fuchsia behind me, that I must search for a way to destroy it all. Since the room would offer no tools, I began to look within the dream. I must have been distraught, for I quickly thought of an answer, although obscenely extreme. I knew this was a nightmare, I told myself, as I imagined myself standing before it. A childish voice played in my ear, from somewhere within. "How many thermonuclear warheads would it take to unscrew this light bulb?" I was horrified to hear myself respond. "No worries, they have more than enough... It is all a matter of time, right?"

But I realized, even in a dream, I couldn't stomach an end like that. I needed something smaller, more suited for this room. And so, I searched the trove of memories within the dream, until I came to Grandma's sewing basket, filled with lavender ribbons. There, as if they had been waiting for years, was an old pair of scissors. The cold metal weighed heavily in my hands as I pulled them from the basket. For a figment of a dream, they felt incredibly solid. I feared for a moment that they wouldn't last if I carried them into the lavender room. I thought they might dissolve into mist as soon as I left the spinning dream, as the memories themselves always began to dissolve. To my surprise, I was able to lift them with ease. And so, I cut the thread of the dream, noting with a strange delight how like Atropos I felt.

I must admit, now, that I was wrong... that vibrant dream wasn't chaos, but reality, or as best as we'll ever know it. This room was the chaos, reality and I within it. And really, that lavender wasn't so bad-it could have been worse, as I discovered when I cut the thread. For, while the thread continued to spin, the last thing I saw was those horrid walls, turning to an immutable black.

The End

(Originally written on 6/15/2005)

Epilogue

When I wrote Illusions in Lavender, I knew it wouldn't have a pretty ending. Most of my stories have a dark twist, but this one seemed especially bad. As I said in the introduction, it is not about a cure. In some ways, writing the story helped me to deal with my struggles. Not only did it give me perspective, but it helped as a way to discuss the struggle with others. One of the most important things I've learned is that I'm not alone, and to accept that there is nothing "wrong with my head", making me grossly abnormal.

I believe that we should never be ashamed of bipolar or other mental illnesses. The causes and influences are so deeply tied into our personalities, our very beings. They make us who we are. The hard part is, we have to face our troubles to learn from them... and it is never easy to face them alone. Ignoring the struggles of a mental illness will always take its toll, not only on the person suffering, but on their loved ones as well. We need to talk.

Notes: I posted this once before on my old site, but neglected to give it a proper introduction or conclusion. I'm glad to finally set it in the proper context. Also, in case anyone was wondering, I titled the fractal posted yesterday "Illusions in Lavender." The colors, the waves, and the seemingly random patterns in the fractal seem to illustrate this story better than the cover picture.