Hanging on Between the Poles - Life with a Bi-Polar Dad

     I preface this piece by acknowledging that my dad suffered more that I ever did. I understand the problems with his mental illness and am sorry he had to experience any of it. This is just my side of swinging between the maniac and depressed states with him.

     Just as there are two sides to being bi-polar, there's also two groups being affected by the disease, the afflicted and their loved ones. One side rides the frenetic rollercoaster of highs and lows. The other side watches or goes along for the ride.
     I don't blame my dad for his illness, heck he never even acknowledged to me that he even had bi-polar disorder. But spoken or unspoken, it affected our relationship. I lived too far away to be a daily spectator. Too far to even help him if he'd have let me. But during those times I did spend with him, I jumped on board and rode the rollercoaster too.
     Most of my childhood, I felt like I had two distinct dads. One possessed maniac energy. His joy infected me, a happy virus of playfulness and enthusiasm. He loved music and food and exploring new things. Everything was the best thing ever. During his maniac stage, I swear I could see the molecules in his skin bouncing off of each other. He would pop up off the couch and dive for the stereo. "You have to hear this song," he'd say and throw on a record, or tape, or c.d. His eyes would close, a look of bliss transmitting itself across his face, I had no choice but to love the song too enraptured by his passion for it.
     Happy dad was my favorite person on the planet, my partner in crime, and fellow explorer. I couldn't help but leap into adventure with him. We'd hop on the first bus leaving the station, the destination didn't matter, only the journey. We'd find the fun wherever we landed because in his maniac phase, everything was fun and exciting, and the best museum, shop, castle, thing ever! We'd take staircases forbidden to tourists finding ourselves in a dark passage at Hampton Court Palace that I was sure was haunted by Anne Boleyn. Or we'd sneak into Dudley Zoo through the gift shop. I lived for those moments. A majority of my happiest memories are those I spent with happy dad dancing in front of a crowd of theatre-goers after seeing "Crazy for You" or singing songs from Evita in the narrow kitchen of my Irish friend, Denise, with dad egging everyone to sing something and showing such enthusiasm for our performances you'd have thought we were celebrities.
     But without warning happy dad would dissolve and disappear in a puff of toxic smoke leaving his evil twin - depressed dad also sometimes known as angry dad. Suddenly the bottom would fall out dropping me on my ass. I'd stare bewildered and dumbstruck as I scrambled to figure out what I'd done. Had I thrown the switch on his mood? Was it my fault? It felt like it.
     All of a sudden, even commonplace things like my cereal-eating habits now communicated hidden messages to his over-taxed brain. It was a conspiracy. I ate too slowly on purpose to avoid meeting his friends. My voice, the one he praised last night as being beautiful and just like Sarah Brightman's, now irritated him. He berated my natural voice, telling me I made it too high-pitched on purpose, I psychologically didn't want to grow up. Or he claimed I ganged up on him and embarrassed him in front of the same friends we just had the best evening with. If I liked the cider he bought me at the pub too much, I had a drinking problem. If I didn't drink, I was a prude. His mood soured with his waning energy. Everything wonderful and beautiful a minute ago suddenly grated on his nerves. I irritated him.
     As a young child, I cried and struggled to fix whatever I had done wrong. I internalized his bad moods as being my fault. I was too young to realize I had no control over the situation.
     But as I grew older, I learned to steal myself. I mentally prepared for the worse. Even in the midst of an adventure, I braced myself for the end and the pendulum swing to the other side. I hid from him on days he swung too far down into his own personal hell. I screened his calls, gauging his mood before I agreed to talk to him. I hated playing the game but could no longer weather the storm of his bad moods. I didn't know how to help him and just felt pulled under instead of useful.
     While he never said he was bi-polar, I knew something was off. But when I asked about taking meds he said he didn't want to alter his personality. Conflicted, I didn't want to lose the free-wheeling happy dad. But on the flip side, I could no longer deal with the lowest of the lows.
     I hated those moments when his energy waned and his neediness latched onto me like a toxic tar. He'd cling to me and berate me at the same time. He'd pick apart my faults in minute detail projecting his unhappiness and self-loathing on me. Worse still, I couldn't help him. I was powerless to do anything but watch us both go under.
     I loved my see-saw dad. I just wished for both our sakes he wasn't tormented with a mind strung between two poles. I just couldn't hang along with him crucified to his unhappiness.