Manic and melancholy

It's New Years Eve; our first wedding anniversary. We have an adorable, perfect,  13-day-old daughter. Renovations have just completed on our home. And as we watch the fireworks explode above the river on a perfect Brisbane summer night, I'm trying to offer M-A reasons not to die.

Unfortunately, my arguments are futile against the vile vine that has coiled itself around her mind, swallowing any sun long before it provides any light or warmth.

I am unable to empathise. The deepest I've delved into the depths of my own disposition, produced a darkness sufficient only to replace my morning salutations with grudging grunts; and it was resolved with a double espresso.

But I have witnessed more closely than one would ever wish, the symptoms of this disease.  It is more than mental. It physically flattens. It steals the victim's energy, making it unavailable for sudden, spontaneous movement (like facial expressions, or laughter) and transforms it into relentless anxiety and self-destructive thoughts.

Perception of time is altered. An hour spent staring at the ceiling, imprisoned in a custom-designed hell, is far longer than the 60 minutes it comprises. Each day survived is a significant victory, but takes a heavy toll. A week is almost inconceivable. The months it will likely take for the episode to pass...

The trivia of everyday life irritates. This is at least consistent. It would be incongruous to be enumerating ways to cease one's existence, whilst being remotely concerned as to whether it was cool for this time of year, or that the cricket team is doing well.

Apparently it was Samuel Johnson who coined it the black dog. We find the term a useful avatar, but please don't visualise a black-coated Labrador with lolling tongue and drooping eyes. Picture instead a giant, glistening, sinew-bound, raven hell-hound; snarling, fangs dripping. It bites hard, and shakes the victim violently. There is no breaking free. The only available strategy is playing dead, and hoping that when it is done you are still only playing.

Medicine is mostly impotent, possessing no weapons capable of deterring it at the peak of its rage.   
In some ways, mental-health lags the rest of medicine by centuries.  Potential treatments are discovered accidentally, with no proven theory as to why they might work.  Anti-depressant drugs are the high-technology equivalent of applying leeches or letting blood (in my opinion).  They are not exposed as snake-oil only because depression, as its moniker indicates, is an episodic illness.  People are prescribed the drugs (which conveniently are extremely vague as to how long they take to produce a result), and eventually, they improve (as they otherwise would).  Again, this is just my ill-informed opinion.  Personal results may vary.  Please consult your doctor if symptoms persist.

As humans, we simply don’t understand how our brains function. It seems a philosophical question of the type Hofstadter would ponder: Can an intelligent system comprehend itself? (i.e. the human-brain). But fuck the philosophy, I just want my wife back.

We are drowning in a dark and stormy ocean.  I am paddling furiously, trying to keep our heads above water, while M-A begs me to let her drown.  The fact that it is an episode, that it will certainly pass, is the life-saver we cling to.  Without it, we would certainly sink.

The metaphor is lame, I know.  But I resort to it only because I can’t realistically describe it.  Combinations of the strongest adjectives sound insipid when I read them while looking at her face.
And I see only the visible affect.  Her eyes reveal tiny reflections of the horrible maelstrom inside.  Occasionally I make the mistake, not of thinking I understand, but of forgetting that I don’t.  Then I go to hug her before bed; to tell her that she is strong; that she can face another day.  My hand inadvertently slides under her pillow and discovers the hidden handful of pills which will ensure she will never have to.  And I remember that I have no idea.
         
There are two M-A’s: high and low; manic and melancholy.
 
When she is high, no one enjoys life more.  She is a complete extrovert; organised; capable; carefree.  She loves food, activity, work, and most of all, people.  Simple things thrill, like a good Avocado or a sunny day.

When she is low, all the above is false; the exact opposite the truth.  The term ‘bi-polar’ is completely appropriate.
  
Perhaps this is true for everyone, only to varying extents.  At what point does it become pathological?  If M-A was offered a deal in which she could avoid the lows, in return for lowering the highs, would she accept?  Would I?    

Like I repeatedly whisper to her, it will be OK.  This will pass.  Manic M-A will return.  And so will melancholy…