In the 9th grade, I met my best friend David.
All through high school, we were inseparable, as they say. We were always at each others houses, we went on family vacations together, dated best friends, road tripped all over, spent holidays together. As cliche as it sounds, we really were like brothers. David was the smartest guy I ever met.
Our freshman year in college, we were on opposite coasts, he at Berkeley, me at Boston College. It was in the second semester that things began to change radically.
Without going into all the awful details, David had a manic episode, and a doozy at that. It was frightening and terrible for everyone, David most of all. While in the hospital he was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
The ensuing 25 years have been rollercoaster of good periods, followed by medication non-compliance, followed by delusions and bizarre behavior. He was able to get his PhD in Pshycis from MIT, and even for a while found work as a Professor at a small Southern College.
But the good times never lasted. There were stable times, sometimes lasting 2-3 years, but the Bipolar Disorder kept rearing its ugly head. He ended up in the hospital at least 7 times that I can remember.
That is part of the cruelty of Bipolar. It gives you false hope. There are days when you are sure the old David is back, and everything will be fine. Then there are days you realize it will never be the same, no matter what you do. All you can do is understand the best you can and ride it out. I'm not ashamed to admit there were times when it was very difficult to be his friend.
The last time I spoke to him was December 2007. He wasn't doing very well. He was living with his mother, getting some mental health help but still struggling with med compliance. I spoke to his mother for a while, and she sounded concerned but hopeful, which is how she always sounded.
Yesterday, through a completely unrelated, work-based route, I reconnected with his father. We spoke on the phone for a few minutes before he told me: David had killed himself a few months ago. Hung himself in his mother's garage. He did not leave a note. He was 42.
His parents had tried to contact me, but the number in David's book was old. My father had moved and my sister had died. They couldn't find me, and strangely both his parents were very apologetic about this. I knew they had tried, and I tend to keep a low profile anyway.
And so today my thoughts are about friends gone and great memories. I also think about the incredible struggles and sacrifices friends and family make when a loved one is mentally ill. It's so clear when a child is physically handicapped, but mental illness is murkier, and still not well understood in terms of family dynamics. It is so painful to see someone you love lose control, and they can't even realize it's happening. But you don't give up and keep on loving them and doing your best to accommodate while grieving the loss of the person that was.
My heart breaks for his poor mother. It shows me how out of it he was, that he would not think about putting his mother through that. That was not him.
I keep asking myself if it is wrong to have the thought that at least he's not suffering anymore? Is it wrong to not be mad at him?
Anyway, I'm sure I'm not the only person to have gone through something like this. I'll bet some of you love someone who is mentally ill. How do you cope with it? Do you worry about things like this?
All through high school, we were inseparable, as they say. We were always at each others houses, we went on family vacations together, dated best friends, road tripped all over, spent holidays together. As cliche as it sounds, we really were like brothers. David was the smartest guy I ever met.
Our freshman year in college, we were on opposite coasts, he at Berkeley, me at Boston College. It was in the second semester that things began to change radically.
Without going into all the awful details, David had a manic episode, and a doozy at that. It was frightening and terrible for everyone, David most of all. While in the hospital he was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
The ensuing 25 years have been rollercoaster of good periods, followed by medication non-compliance, followed by delusions and bizarre behavior. He was able to get his PhD in Pshycis from MIT, and even for a while found work as a Professor at a small Southern College.
But the good times never lasted. There were stable times, sometimes lasting 2-3 years, but the Bipolar Disorder kept rearing its ugly head. He ended up in the hospital at least 7 times that I can remember.
That is part of the cruelty of Bipolar. It gives you false hope. There are days when you are sure the old David is back, and everything will be fine. Then there are days you realize it will never be the same, no matter what you do. All you can do is understand the best you can and ride it out. I'm not ashamed to admit there were times when it was very difficult to be his friend.
The last time I spoke to him was December 2007. He wasn't doing very well. He was living with his mother, getting some mental health help but still struggling with med compliance. I spoke to his mother for a while, and she sounded concerned but hopeful, which is how she always sounded.
Yesterday, through a completely unrelated, work-based route, I reconnected with his father. We spoke on the phone for a few minutes before he told me: David had killed himself a few months ago. Hung himself in his mother's garage. He did not leave a note. He was 42.
His parents had tried to contact me, but the number in David's book was old. My father had moved and my sister had died. They couldn't find me, and strangely both his parents were very apologetic about this. I knew they had tried, and I tend to keep a low profile anyway.
And so today my thoughts are about friends gone and great memories. I also think about the incredible struggles and sacrifices friends and family make when a loved one is mentally ill. It's so clear when a child is physically handicapped, but mental illness is murkier, and still not well understood in terms of family dynamics. It is so painful to see someone you love lose control, and they can't even realize it's happening. But you don't give up and keep on loving them and doing your best to accommodate while grieving the loss of the person that was.
My heart breaks for his poor mother. It shows me how out of it he was, that he would not think about putting his mother through that. That was not him.
I keep asking myself if it is wrong to have the thought that at least he's not suffering anymore? Is it wrong to not be mad at him?
Anyway, I'm sure I'm not the only person to have gone through something like this. I'll bet some of you love someone who is mentally ill. How do you cope with it? Do you worry about things like this?
