Grown Up Scary

 

   It was the dark of the night on an Arkansas highway. The pitch black was broken by wood rows burning off to the left, their eerie glow casting shadows that danced in the field. On my right sat my wife, Sam. She was talking non-stop since the day before yesterday. She suffered from bipolar disorder and had stopped taking her meds sometime in the last week. My mind was tired, and my body exhausted from both trying to get her help and listening to the stream of ideas, accusations and anger that spilled from her lips. I just wanted her level, balanced and thinking rationally. She wanted me to leave her be. She was fine, in her own judgement. Anyone who spent more than ten minutes talking to her could tell otherwise. The scarry night drive wasn’t frightening because of the shadowy figures dancing in the fire-lit field. It was the person I loved next to me being unrecognizable that struck fear into my heart.  

   The hospital ER had no problem evaluating her. She talked in random tangents and sudden questions. Her charm and intelligence were still there, as she laughed and quoted both scientific facts and bible verses at the psych doctor. He recommended she go to a psychiatric hospital for further treatment and reevaluation. The problem was two-fold. The only bed he could find immediately open was two hours away, and there would be no transportation available. She was a non-emergency case. I could drive her, he said, if that was possible. I’d been awake for most of the past three days. I resigned myself to assenting. Of course I could drive her. No problem.  

   The trip was before GPS was common. Heck, I didn’t even own a cell phone at the time. So, I got directions printed off at the hospital for a little hospital somewhere in the middle of Arkansas and headed off into the night. Sam alternated between knowing something was wrong (mainly with me, not her) and trying to convince me that we didn’t have to do this. We could just go home. It’d be better in the morning. She’d offer unrealistic deals that included “being good” and “I’ll calm down” and “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t put me away”. All of which were tempting, but none of them would get her any help. Sometimes it just took her time to burn out. Then she’d sleep for three, or four, days in a funk of depression. None of it was her fault. A chemical imbalance within her brain had to be “helped” into balance. Only medication and treatment would get her back into balance. No amount of love, patience, or understanding would magically induce that balance. She would only rarely get back on her meds voluntarily once she’d gotten off them.  

   When we arrived at the small facility in the wee hours of the morning, the sun was just coming up. She wasn’t happy, but she went inside after only a half hour or so of talking about why she shouldn’t. I was angry. Tired. Sad. All at the same time. She finally relented. She went inside with me. I did paperwork while she talked to the nurse, non-stop, and the tech, and the doctor and anyone who happened to pass by. She was angry with me. She was hostile and resentful. It was me who should be admitted. I was the problem. It was my fault she was here. It was my fault she was this way. All things geared to hurtfulness were thrown my way. All had a smidge of truth to them. Still, I signed the papers. It was all I knew to do for her at this point. They took her away to evaluate, medicate and wait. I went outside to my car and cried.  

   There are some things in this world I fear. Ghosts, goblins, witches and vampires don’t make the list. Me losing control of my own mind is on it. Taking over the responsibility for another grown person’s mental health is in the top five of that list. That’s grown up scary, right there.  It’s the cold wind of winter on your soul when you put someone somewhere “for their own good”. It’s the part of loving someone they never tell you about. I’ll take fictional monsters any day of the week over that kind of scary. You would, too.  

God Bless Y’all.