Self-care and smarts

 I’m working steadily on my memoir of my experiences with manic depression (bipolar to those of you under age 40. Have I told you how much I hate the term bipolar?)

Swimming in the memories, processing them in new ways, listening to interviews of Jim, my kids and siblings and in-laws, I’m struck with many things.

One is my ‘recovery’ after my third manic episode in 2003. After seven years of faithful, consistent lithium-taking, I stopped, without benefit of medical advice. No, that’s not accurate: after leaving a voice message at the clinic declaring my decision, I received a reply voicemail, telling me, begging me, to take the medication. I blew off the communication with predictable (though not to me) and disastrous results: a psychotic break and a slow and painful return to the land of the sane.

While in the hospital, I listened carefully in the group therapy sessions and took active part, motivated to glean any wisdom the psychiatric profession had to offer. The sunroom where we met had a miniature greenhouse. I asked permission to take cuttings and brought home three: a variety of Saintpauli (African violet) I’d never seen, with small pointed leaves and delicate lavender flowers, a tradescantia zebrina with dusky purple-and-silver striped leaves, and a purple passion plant. (Note the color theme.)

I brought the plants home as a reminder to take care of myself.

Over the years, as the plants got woody, overgrown, and unmanageable, I would pinch off ends with my fingers, place them in a glass of water on the windowsill, wait for roots, and plant the new slips.

Now, 19 years later (the psychotic break was in January 2003), one variety remains: I have three clay pots of purple passion plants.

But when did my striving for self-care supersede my ambition to remain mentally sharp and smart?

My four surviving siblings graciously agreed to be interviewed for my memoir. There were three things they all mentioned as notable: how big an influence for good our brother Michael was on our family culture and on each of us individually, what a big deal my epic cross-country trip was, and how smart I was as a kid.

I was driven to succeed in academics. I desperately wanted to please my research-chemist father. I took Advanced Placement classes in high school and earned a semester’s worth of college credits at Bryn Mawr College, one of the selective Seven Sisters.

But for years I have struggled to remember things I read when I have the bandwidth to read at all. I’ve taken to listening to audiobooks, which helps, but retention is poor. After a few months I don’t remember what I’ve heard.

No one would call me smart now, not at the level, the caliber, of my early, promising years.

I’m not whining (I hope), just trying to get the facts down. Fact: as attested to by each of my surviving siblings, I was the smart one in the family. Fact, I did very well at an academically competitive college. Fact, I’m nowhere near at that level now. When I started taking psychiatric medications, I noticed a dulling, a dimming of my intellect.

When did self-care overtake smart? When smart was no longer an option. I made no conscious decision to give up, but as the years have passed, so has my intellectual sharpness and edge. So it is.