The heartbreak that is mental illness

Dispatch from the frontline

I wasn’t going to host him, remember? I said to my friends, to my therapist, to my Substack newsletter, I’m not hosting him, and I feel really good about it. How did it happen that I came to host him?

We rented an AirBnB for him near the Emeryville border. I drove by it. It didn’t look great. Oakland is high-crime again these days.

He’s vulnerable. He was without a car or bike. He was returning to the East Bay, to the U.S., after more than three years away, living in a small apartment near his family in Caracas, Venezuela. He had a cleaning woman and cook come every week. He had family visit with him every weekend.

For three years, or the majority of that time, he hid in the apartment, contending with a ferocious depression with elements of psychosis. We’ve been through a few of these now. When he’s depressed, he’s afraid of stoves, fire, food, water, bathing, people. Light is too strong. Sounds are too loud. Colors are too bold. Tastes are painfully strong. He curls up into a little ball on the couch or the bed. When he rises, gaunt, he staggers about with haunted eyes.

Well, he’s not depressed now.

We were concerned. We sensed he was growing manic again, after three years with no episode.

And here he is, visiting. Of course he can only visit when he’s manic or in the interstice between depression and mania. He’s incapacitated when depressed and would never have the courage to fly. We should have know. We did know.

But, we hoped.

And how could we say no, when he hadn’t seen his kids in more than three years?

Before he arrived, he shared a Google doc with me on his recent achievements. At the top of the list were: Took a shower and got a haircut by myself.

When I read that, I canceled the AirBnB we’d gotten for him. It seemed cruel. He was too vulnerable. I was afraid something would happen to him. He’d be attacked, or taken advantage of. I also felt it would be mean to have him live alone, without family. He’s a Latin male, an unwell one. It didn’t seem right or fair to ostracize him.

So, he’s here. With me. In my home. Again.

When he arrived, we were hopeful. He looked great, unexpectedly. He wore a grey and blue plaid blazer over a lavender button-down shirt and a jean jacket. The photos of him hugging our daughter at the airport—the look of bliss on both their faces—is priceless and deeply moving. It brought me to tears, and when I sent the picture to a couple of friends, they said they cried too.

So, there’s something pure there. Something powerful, important, and positive.

But, we are contending with an evolving situation now.

This morning, I called Dr. Jeffrey Johns, the psychiatrist B. worked with in Berkeley before. Blessedly, B. allowed me to call him—that’s an improvement from beforetimes when we couldn’t mention mental illness without B. flying into a rage.

But, last night when my son and I corralled him on the couch, he said he wasn’t manic, and started to say he didn’t have bipolar disorder. Our son said, Papi, the courts gave you disability after a years-long, comprehensive review because it was determined you indeed do suffer from bipolar disorder.

At the very least.

He’s now saying he also has Tourette’s, and that’s why he’s making sudden, random expulsions of sound as he busies himself about the house. He doesn’t call it Tourette’s. He calls it a variety of made-up words that sound something like “Tourette’s,” but he either can’t or won’t remember the proper term.

Who knows. Maybe he does. Have it.

It doesn’t really matter what he has.

All my son and I know is that we are filled with a rapidly gathering dread.

Last night, B. appeared at the dining room table in a fluorescent yellow safety vest, the kind you see workmen wearing in the street. My heart sank. This is what he took to wearing as a kind of uniform the last few manias we endured (which is so interesting, as a metaphor). He saw the look on my face, left the table, and returned without it.

Last night, I entered his room, our guest room where he’s sleeping. He’d used half a box of thumbtacks to tack up random flyers he’d picked up from the Emeryville Senior Center all over the newly repaired and painted walls and also the door. Multi-colored post-its are also stuck all over the wall.

The words on them are as follows: FREEFORM, SENTIMENTAL, EXTRA, ART, PROFICIENCY, DRAMA, EXITMENT (sic), FANTASY, ADVENTURE, MEMORY, INTINCT (sic), STRUCTURE, INTRO, SPORTS, WRITING, READING, MATH, COMPETENSE (sic), STARS, MARS, EARTH, VENUS, ASTEROIDS, SUN, JUPITER, COMETS, SATURN, VENUS, THE MOON, URANUS.

He’s sleeping little. He stays up late and rises early. He’s talking and laughing to himself. He’s “organizing” my kitchen (and not doing too bad a job of it, to be honest. For now.) He wants to “inventory” the garage. (I said absolutely not.)

I was going to let him borrow my car, and our son was going to let him borrow his bike to get around, but neither of us wants to do this anymore. I don’t want him having an accident with the car. I don’t want him getting hurt on the bike.

He’s already hurting himself. His shin is all banged up, and his toe is black. Having frequent accidents is part of all this as he bangs around, filled with a voluminous energy he can’t control.

He’s wearing weird things on his head.

He visited the wench Diana yesterday, who gave him a bike. Diana is the person I filed an elder abuse claim against more than three years ago. She was extorting him during his worst mania yet, when he got into trouble with the law and was swiftly removed from the country by me, to save him from being booked at Santa Rita Prison, half the population of which is mentally ill.

He’s loud and raucous. He’s having a jolly old time for now. He’s the king of the non-sequitur, as a friend and neighbor used to call him. His “ideas” (fantasies, visions) come fast and furious. He wants to buy a Trump piñata and have a party with the teachers from Oakland Technical High School. (He has no relationships to speak of with any of the teachers at that school, or any other.) I said no. I said, You can invite a teacher or two to coffee at a cafe.

I know that won’t happen.

It’s not all bad. Strangely enough, we love him. Many people do. He’s good at heart. When he heard my sister was sick, his first impulse was to fly to her and help her. He means well. And he can bring great energy to a social situation. At his welcome dinner the other night, he had the whole room laughing with his game that he brought out. He was fun.

We love him, and he drives us crazy. It’s intolerable. And that’s why the tears flow.

It’s not his fault. But, as my therapist said, It’s not his fault he’s sick. But it is his responsibility to manage it.

My therapist would be horrified and very mad at me if he knew B. was living here.

We have five weeks to go.

Before B. arrived, my son and I were in the kitchen. He leaned against the dryer and said, So, when Papi starts to get manic, it’s progressive, right? I said, Yes.

And, he’s coming in three weeks, right?

Yes.

And… he’s staying for… six.

Yes.

And we think he might be getting manic..?

Yes.

So, he’ll potentially still be here at or near the height of a manic episode?

Yes. Yes, yes, and yes.

Now, we are just in coping mode.

I’m staying home, holding down the fort. Being a presence here. Managing our possessions, the building. Making sure nothing weird or crazy happens. Making sure he doesn’t bring homeless people here, for example, or allow them to live in my car.

It’s like having a toddler, but a huge, loud one.

I’m not going to tango. I’m not going out.

I’m hunkering down.

Our son wrote an agreement that laid down the house rules. We all signed. B. has already broken them. We’re missing things. Phone chargers, at the moment. B. is collecting random objects and detritus and bringing them home.

I came home the other day to find an assortment of books from local Little Free Libraries all over the steps of our building. I confronted B.

You said not to bring them in the building! he cried.

I said, Don’t bring them on the property at all. Nowhere on the property.

I called Dr. Johns this morning to make an appointment for B. Miraculously, B. said he’ll go.

During a brief meditation before I began this post, I thought of Dr. Johns. I thought, I want to meet with Dr. Johns. I need support.

I was flooded with self-compassion.

And it was healthful. It was helpful. It signified progress on my part. I was able to step out of emergency-dealing mode and feel. Feel what this is like for me, what it brings up, the flood of painful memories. The fear, the worry, the concern, the irritation.

The pain.

I felt the tears well up, and I imagined my own arms enfolding me in their embrace, and it was fortifying. It was helpful.

I will see if I can meet with Dr. Johns. I will make an appointment with my therapist, even though he will be mad at me.

And I will take the steps I need to take to protect everyone in this equation. Me. Our kids. B. The other people who live in our building.

The most important thing is that B. gets on that plane in five weeks.

We are holding our breath until that moment.

We will do what we can to keep B. calm and manage the situation. We will do all we can to ensure he’s not in jail or waiting for a court date, or in the psychiatric ward at John George. Because, of course, any of those things would prevent him from boarding his flight.

We will enjoy some moments, I am sure. We will be gritting our teeth through many of them.

We pray we get through in one piece, and that B. gets on that plane.

Enshallah. God willing.