Hidden Fires

Introduction:

Living with bipolar disorder is kind of like holding egg whites in your fingers. It's hard to get a secure hold on the problem. It's slippery, and it's messy, and despite your best efforts to control it, it seems to keep oozing out between your fingers. Even so, realizing the illusive, somewhat formless nature of the subject I am addressing here, I do so at the urging of my husband of 30 years who has suffered from bipolar disorder for most of his life. My husband, Kirby, feels strongly that our story might offer hope and light to others who may be experiencing similar trials. He feels that we may be able to offer encouragement to others who are currently searching for a way through this maze, others who may be grasping for a reason to hope, or for the courage to simply face one more day.

Our story will illustrate stages that I went through as a spouse of a bipolar man and the suffering that occurred in Kirby's mind as he struggled with actions and emotions that left him devastated and self loathing. Our story includes a magical love at first sight beginning and a hopeful and optimistic first few years. It includes the surprise and shock of my first encounter with a bipolar manic episode; the extremes of suicidal depression; the acting out and rages of mania; and the crippling recurring cycle of the extreme moods of bipolar disorder relentlessly returning over many years and eventually threatening to tear our love, our family, and our inner selves apart. Even now, after several years of relative stability and internal healing behind me, I am reluctant to reopen those chapters of my life that I have left behind, or to examine too closely the wounds that are now healed over. These are the stories that we have never told. These are the secrets that we have never revealed, because to live with bipolar is to have a hidden life. To live with bipolar is to have experiences that don't fit into the woven fibers of your expectations and dreams. To live with bipolar is to have living nightmares, a series of surreal, irrational events so foreign to your expectations that you strive to deny them as though ignoring their existence would invalidate their reality.

Our journey through bipolar has taught us that to survive this disease, you must acquire coping tools. First, you must recognize and acknowledge that the behaviors you are seeing are manifestations of a disease. You must understand that these behaviors are revealing this disease to you. You have to see it. Knowledge liberates and understanding is critical.

Second, I have learned that forgiveness is essential to walking this road. You must not internally blame or further victimize yourself. Whether you are a victim of this disease, or a victim of a victim, bipolar is enough of a perpetrator. You must not compound the burden of having this disorder by beating up on yourself or your loved one. The symptoms you suffer will reek enough havoc on the foundations of your emotional and rational essence. Do not add to them your self derision. All of your focus has to be on controlling and mastering the disease. Victims of this disease have to learn to reject the instinctual and logical reaction of blaming or condemning the person afflicted with bipolar for it's manifestation. In dealing with the behaviors manifested in a bipolar personality one must learn to separate the disease from the person with the disease, and to treat them as two different subjects.

Finally, I have learned that the most essential tool in overcoming the effects of bipolar disorder, for both the sufferer of the disease, and for those who experience the fallout from it, is love. Love, in this arena, must never be withheld due to behavior. Love must remain an absolute which will never be removed from the bargaining table. Love must be the one unconditionally given and acknowledged constant in order for any nurturing secure relationship to survive the ravages of this disorder. The expression of and fidelity to love, and the solid devotion and unwavering belief in the absolute value of each person must be held inviolate. This is the final security that will ultimately hold your relationship in place and bring you out of darkness into light and love and security.

Kirby and I have not overcome bipolar disorder. He is not cured, nor has he ever been correctly diagnosed or medicated.  To this day, he still suffers from it's symptoms.  How he manages treatment is his decision to make.  He has learned to a large extent to manage his mood swings.  I believe that medication is also a viable option, and it is the one that I have chosen for our teenage daughter, who started manifesting bipolar symptoms at age 14. She has improved control of her symptoms with medication.  Kirby maintains and chooses to continue to manage his bipolar with recognition and management strategies that he has developed over the last decade or so.  Kirby and I, with the grace of God, have found our way through the ravages of this disorder with our marriage, our love, and our family intact. This is not a common accomplishment. Broken relationships are a regular symptom of bipolar disorder. We would offer hope to others, that they can do what we have done and create a love that lasts. That is why I am writing this story down.

I hope it helps someone,
Sherri Crowley

Work in Progress Ahead: Rough going. . . .(In other words, you should probably stop here, and come back later when I get this put together better.)

Chapter One
Love at First Sight

Men's voices upstairs, I heard them through my dream fog and woke to find I had fallen asleep over my books. Great, I'm a mess, I thought. Hair mussed, wearing gray sweats and sporting old glasses instead of contact lenses, all I could think was, how was I going to avoid being seen. I was in my room and no one knew I was home, but that wouldn't last. I was going to have to get up, and the floor plan of my college apartment was not going to work to my advantage.

I recognized Marty's voice, and the voice of Ann, my roommate, but there was a new male voice that I didn't know. It sounded like Ann was going to make good on her promise to cut Marty's hair. Well, I was just going to have to move as quietly as possible. The vanity and sink were just outside my bedroom door, the bathroom was on the left. Stairs just to the right of the vanity led up half a flight of stairs to our front room and adjoining kitchen, that's where the three of them were talking. Hopeless, I thought, they're going to see me.

I sneaked out of my room and glanced at the mirror above the sink. Brown eyes behind plastic frames, dark shoulder length hair gone limp, and baggie sweats, not my best look. Just then I heard Marty's voice from above. “Hey, is that Sherri? Come meet my brother, Kirby.”

Great, I thought. I ascended the stairs reluctantly. There they were. Marty, tall, with straight, light brown hair, blue eyes and a square chin. He wore a collared shirt with wrangler jeans. He was the kind of guy who looked nice in a cowboy hat, and often wore one. My roommate Ann was short and petite with cropped brown hair, a cute pixie face and a bright smile, and then there was Kirby, tall and broad shouldered. He wore a yellow ski jacket, over a navy turtle necked shirt. His jeans were baggie, his hair, black, grown slightly over his collar, his eyes a piercing blue.  I'm not sure how long it took for me to realize that I was looking at my perfect man, but it wasn't long. After the introductions, and feeling I couldn't make a neat escape, I slumped into an over stuffed chair with my feet curled up, and as invisibly as possible, began to make my assessment of the situation.

Marty and Ann had taken their position inside of the kitchen. He on a chair with her standing behind him trimming his hair. They were talking. Kirby was on the couch He could both see and be seen by Marty and Ann. I chose a chair that was out of sight from the kitchen. Since Kirby was listening to Marty and Ann's conversation, and I was successfully being ignored. I was watching Kirby.

I had dated Marty a few times over the past month. He was nice looking, outgoing, ambitious, and smart. We had had some fun, but things had kind of stalled between us, and the last time we had gone out, I'd told him about Rick, my returned missionary friend from Maryland, who I'd been writing to for three years, and who was due back at school in January. I had meant to discourage Marty, and it had worked. I hadn't heard from him for a week or two.

It was December 1982. I was a Senior at BYU finishing my bachelor's degree in Elementary Education with a minor in English. This was my first semester back in school since my own 18 month mission to Hokkaido, Japan, which had ended in July. Next on my to do list were two things: graduate, and get married--not necessarily in that order. I had found myself recently praying nightly for Got to help me to find the perfect man before I left this prime male hunting ground and ended up an old maid school marm in some po-dunk little Utah town. Still, as much as I had been longing to meet my Mr. Right, I had hardly expected him to come waltzing into my apartment and take a seat on my couch, but here he was. Now what was I going to do about it?  Well, I wasn't going to make a very good impression in the state I was in. Best stay as innocuous as possible and regroup.

For the next few days I went about my life as usual. I went to class, studied, did my homework; but on my way to and from classes, I kept my eyes open for Kirby. I saw him around a few times. He seemed to be spending his time hustling girls and skiing. He didn't seem to remember me, so I figured I'd start fresh on Sunday.

Of course, living at BYU, the primary social unit was the local church group--the student ward. That is where I figured I would see Kirby next. I dressed carefully that day for church. I chose a dark purple dress and high heels. I took extra time with my hair and make up. This time, I wanted to be noticed. Our ward meetings were held at the school. I walked down the hall, head held high, with a big smile on my face. Marty and Kirby were just ahead in the hallway, so I approached Marty and said, “Hi.” Kirby came over then too, and wanted to be introduced. We started a conversation, and this time I had lots of attention. When it was time to move to Sunday School class I fell in step with Kirby; Marty was a few steps behind. “Hey,” he said, “she came over to talk to me.” Kirby and I didn't slow down, we just kept walking and talking together. I wasn't interested in spending any more time with Marty.

During Sunday School, Kirby and I sat near each other in classroom desks and chairs, and when we broke up for Sacrament Meeting, Kirby asked me If I'd like to sit by him for that meeting as well. I agreed. Afterward, as we were walking out of the meeting, surrounded by other people, one of Kirby's friends started talking to him about their plans to go skiing on Tuesday of that week. "You know, I just love skiing," I said. Kirby didn't miss a beat, well, if I was free, would I like to go along? . .”Of course, I would love to,” I said. We walked home together and Kirby went back to Marty's apartment where he was staying. Before he left me at my apartment, we made plans to get together later that evening.

During the intervening hours, I found out later, Kirby took a drive up Y mountain and spent some time sitting on a rock, looking over the valley below. His mind was whirling, trying to figure out what to do about this girl he had just met, who had taken a fast hold of his heart, this girl named, Sherri.

Chapter 2
First Date

The snow was falling, big, white, clumpy flakes. Suspended in a cloud above snow laden pine trees we rode together, nestled in our own world of wonder. It had been a day of fun and sport. We had spent it playing the rhythm of a fall line on a crisp December, Alta, Utah, afternoon. As the ski lift silently climbed, we nestled in a white frosty world. Kirby drew me close, his arm around my shoulders.

“Are you cold? He asked.

“A little.” I replied.

He reached out to shield my face from the falling snow with his hands, and as he did so, drew his face closer to mine. The kiss was sweet, soft, and wistful. Everything blurred and contracted around me. Afterward, we snuggled. I nestled in his arm, perfectly fitted, awestruck and silent.

The lift came to the top of the run and we skied down again, but our hearts were shaken. The lodge seemed to beckon. Over food and cocoa, we curiously explored the magic of more shared kisses, at once so simple, and so sweet, as to make us oblivious to all else but the dawning of love.

Sherri and Kirby 1983

When the morning stars sang together

Job 38:7

When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? I'm in a happy mood. It feels good that the Trunk or Treat turned out fun for everybody and that lots of people came and supported us. Today on the way home from shopping I was thinking about a comment I heard on the news last night about women in the church. The news guy asked a girl if she thought the new mission age for girls was going to give women a stronger presence in the church, and she said yes, because so many sisters would go on missions and be more spiritually strong. I was thinking about the scripture that says: When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy and I thought about the influence for good of all of these wonderful strong spirits who are now in the world and a strong confirming spirit came over me that just was so strong assuring me that we are the ones that were shouting for joy, and that we are making a difference and that we should be joyful.

Thoughts on the political debate

I have a really hard time listening to Obama now. I tune out every time he talks. I just figure everything he says is a lie anyway, so why listen to him. On the other hand, I find myself focusing very hard on what Romney says. In him I find decency and hope. I find it ironic that Obama works so hard to discredit Romney and to try to convince people that he is an evil heartless liar, when it's not true, and he works so hard on hiding his own lying and incompetence. It would be incredible, if it wasn't so predictable. I mean, just look at the scriptures. This is how anti-Christs always talk and behave. Look at the pharisees and scribes in Jesus' time, or the mobs in Carthage, or the priests in King Noah's court, or Korihor, etc. . .in each case the anti-Christ points fingers of outrage and scorn at those trying to do good things for good reasons, while hiding their own corrupt and evil motives and agendas through lies and half truths. They are always motivated by power over men, never by altruistic motives. . .but they always claim that the good person wants to enslave and exploit, and they want to free and be merciful to others. The evidence is always against their claim, but so many people listen with their ears and close up their minds. Meagan is so frustrated with her friends on facebook. All they care about with politics today is gay rights and abortion. I wonder what happened to the generations who thought both ideas were revolting.

Thus the poem by Alexander Pope:.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

How subtle he is, that master of deception! He knows our weakness and our desire to be trusting. He plays on both. He feeds on our need for security and gives us false leaders who make empty promises of fairness and who take away the sting of any remorse of conscience or assignment of responsibility from us while promising everything for nothing and ringing up debts that can't be paid and won't be acknowledged, like dirty little secrets, whose telling seems worse than the doing of them.