B. is back. We were filled with trepidation for weeks. Nina came with me to the airport. We waited 45 minutes from the time the plane landed. People were expelled at intervals, with long periods between where nothing happened. Nina said, If they decided to send him back, would we even know?
They didn’t send him back, although he was afraid they might. For weeks, he’d been worried that, being Venezuelan (and flying indirectly from Venezuela, through Curacao and Panama), and you-know-who now at the helm of our country, he might be denied entry.
I said, essentially, Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a citizen.
But, after reading editorials and articles on the various antics of our new administration, I discovered that B.’s fears weren’t unfounded. Citizenship can be revoked at any time, with no cause.
It wasn’t though. He came sailing around the corner wearing a grey-and-blue plaid sport coat over a jean jacket with a lavender shirt poking through. He looked splendid. Straight, lean, tall, and handsome, with short hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
His long arms enfolded our daughter. I heard her say, Okay, you can take a picture. She’d made me put the camera away. I grabbed it and snapped some shots, and they say it all. Her joy and elation, and his total presence in holding her wrapped securely in his arms… well, the images made my friend L. cry. And I see why.
They make my eyes prick too.
It was surprisingly, incredibly wonderful to see him. To hear him. To have him.
It’s been more than three years, and he looked better than when he left.
It was more than three years ago that I had ferried him forcibly out of the country to avoid being held at Santa Rita Prison, where he would have gone that very night had I not sequestered him and then flown him the next morning to Florida, and on to Dominican Republic, and Venezuela. We parted in Dominican Republic when I learned that I’d have trouble leaving Venezuela if I went further.
My heart in my throat, I watched him board his onward flight. When he was gone, I took the greatest sigh of relief it’s possible to take. In shock, I turned around, retraced my steps, and made my way back to the U.S. I stayed one night in the Miami Airport hotel, holed up in a comically tiny room, grateful for the dark, womblike walls, the lack of windows, the welcoming bed.
I crashed, and slept. Later, I had a burger at an airport bar, and a glass of wine. And licked my wounds. And tried to absorb that I was free, and alone, and that B. was no longer my responsibility, if he ever was.
The truth is, he was. There was no way I was going to let him go to Santa Rita, which is more than half full of mentally ill “inmates.” I don’t think B. would have made it out of there alive. Or, if he had, I was pretty sure his condition would be far worse than anything we’d yet seen.
And we’d seen a great deal.
It’s almost impossible to describe how bad the last mania was. It went on for months, each month worse than the last. The dramatic weight drop, the shocking emaciation, the deep hollows in his temples.
The antics. The volume. The intensity.
The fact that he damaged my right ear by suddenly yelping with enthusiasm when I agreed to take him for a burrito. His elation expressed at a pitch and decibel level that I immediately knew had injured my ear and which was confirmed by a hearing test later.
A souvenir of mania.
After months of running up the sides of trees, jumping on the car hoods of shocked drivers, roller-skating all over the city, running naked through the yard of his co-op at midnight, playing loud music in the attic in the wee hours of the morning…
And the hoarding. The state of his room at the co-op. Our son Bo and I spent hundreds of dollars in hauling fees and hours of our time cleaning it out not once, but twice. A “room” that looked like mountain of trash at the dump, or like a small city destroyed by a cyclone. I wish I could say I’m exaggerating.
When the restraining order was filed, B. just laughed. I went to the Berkeley Police Department that very day and asked them what would happen if B. returned to the Corner House, as the co-op was called. And as I knew he would do.
The female officer I spoke to, who kindly opened the door for me after hours and looked over the photos of the restraining order on my phone, said, This is an injunction from a judge. If we encounter him tonight, we have to take him to Santa Rita. We have no choice.
It took all day, and once he leapt from the car while I was driving up Claremont Avenue, miraculously landed on his feet, and ran back to Berkeley, but eventually, around 8 p.m., I managed to get him to my house in Oakland where he summarily had a tantrum and broke several lamps.
He spent the next few hours dragging trash from around the neighborhood to my front lawn. My neighbor E. witnessed it and tried to help. That didn’t go well.
The next morning, I managed to get him, barefoot, to the office of my cousin in Danville. He’s an attorney. He spoke with B., exchanged glances with me, and said, Get him to his family in Venezuela, as soon as possible.
He said he’d clean up the mess.
B. was furious, but the next morning, it dawned on him that he had me under a barrell, and he asked to go shopping. I bought him whatever he wanted with a credit card. I needed to keep him appeased. He got a new computer, a suit, and I don’t remember what else. He was painfully thin and obviously deranged, but relatively happy.
He spent the last three years depressed and frightened in Venezuela. When he began showing interest in coming to visit, we knew he was awakening from his somnolence. And he has. He’s not depressed. He’s a little excited.
Of course, we are nervous, and have been for some weeks.
But, we love B. We are happy to see him. We are hopeful it can be different this time.
He’s here for six weeks. And this time, we’re able to talk about bi-polar disorder, which is a significant change. For years, the mere mention of that phrase would send B. into a rage.
He’s trying.
He’s sleeping little—not a good sign. He’s making random lists. He’s drawing and coloring. He’s excited, elated, enthusiastic.
But, he managed to meditate with me for ten minutes this morning.
He wants this to go well, as do I.
I was originally going to host him. My therapist, who’s been helping me understand and manage co-dependent tendencies, wasn’t thrilled with the idea. I was also deeply worried and troubled. So, we changed course and decided to get him an AirBnB. I drove by it. I didn’t like the look of it.
Then, a couple of days ago, B., while still in Venezuela, sent me a chart on Google Docs listing his major recent accomplishments, which are… drum roll please… managing to take a shower and get a haircut by himself.
My heart broke.
I invited him here.
He’s elated.
He’s at the DMV now. He just took my car. He wants to renew his driver license. I’m all for that, happy to lend him my car so he can go adventuring with our daughter who lives nearby. That will get him out of my hair during the days while I work. (Yes, I have a new job, writing for Splunk, and yes, I’m grateful and elated.)
I can do better this time too.
I can help B. by creating and holding my own boundaries.
I can be kind. I can push back. I can be gentle.
I don’t have to let B. run roughshod over me. I don’t have to let him overwhelm me.
This morning, as he chattered about… I don’t remember what… I put my hand up and said, You’re overwhelming me a bit.
He was able to hear and accept that. And miraculously he quieted down.
I wasn’t punitive. I didn’t show annoyance. You see, I’ve changed too. I wasn’t annoyed. I simply realized it was getting to be too much, especially in the early morning. I was over-stimulated. And I was able to let that be known without baring my teeth.
There’s no need for aggression.
I’ve asked B., what is your plan if you notice you’re becoming manic?
He doesn’t seem to have one. That’s concerning.
But he knows that Berkeley Mental Health is there. He knows how to get there. And I saw over his shoulder last night one of his Google Docs lists. It was titled, What to do if I get manic.
It’s a mystery, one for the ages, but I love B. He touches my heart. He loves me so much. He admires me. You’re a good person, he said this morning. You get that from Gordon (my father).
I’m not so sure I’m a good person, but I’m not the worst.
We are inextricably bound, B. and I. We have two beautiful kids together.
There are all kinds of people in the world. All kinds of parents.
I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for our kids that their dad suffers severely from mental illness, a mental illness that’s gotten worse every year for the last eight or so years. It’s scary, it’s terrifying.
But, all you have to do is look at the picture of B. enfolding Nina in his long arms at the airport the night before last to see something else. Something not all “healthy” parents have with their kids.
It’s deep affection and tenderness.
It’s physical affection.
The look on Nina’s face is one of joy. Her eyes are scrunched shut. Her expression exudes love and relief. It’s an exhale. It’s rapture. There’s something pure there, something ineffable and powerful, an unshakeable bond.
Yes, he’s mad as a hatter. And yes, we love him. And yes, he’s exasperating. And yes, he’s handsome as all get out. Yes, he’s loud and disruptive. And yes, he tries. And yes, he loves us.
We are a unit, and yes, we’ve been torn asunder many times and by many forces, but something powerful remains.
B. is here for six weeks. We hold our breath, we pray, each in our own ways. We watch. We try to guide. We try to accept. We love.
We love imperfectly. But love, we do.