Bipolar by Koehler: And Other Writings

By John L. Koehler

Bipolar by Koehler is about a man who never gave up. John Koehler is a uniquely gifted man who was humbled at the age of thirty by seasonal depression and bipolar syndrome. The story elaborates John’s frustration as well as his tenacity for solving his own equation. How he relied on his wife and friends, his doctors, medic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633933507

John L. Koehler

John Köehler is the publisher at Koehler Books. He is an award-winning graphics designer, and the author of seven books. He earned a BFA in Communications Arts and Design from Virginia Commonwealth University. John made an international splash in 1991 by winning the Boomerang World Championship in Perth, Australia. John works and lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

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Journal entry- November 30, 1988, 7:05 pm

I’m here at GW Hospital folks. Probably be here for a week or more. Bill (brother in law) is a Psychologist on Team A! I hope to get things worked out so I can get on with my life. The room is private. No phone. No TV etc. All my clothes are locked up. I’m in North Hall, where suicidals go.

BP BOY

My name is John Koehler and I am a man. I am a Christian man. I am a Bipolar (BP) Christian man. I am a Bipolar Christian seasonal affective man. I am a Bipolar Christian seasonal affective white-bread, artistic (not autistic) middle-class 45-year-old man.

If you met me in person, you would probably like me, as I am a likeable guy. True enough, I have many moments of weirdness, and meanness, and certainly I have a strong showing in the Stupid Human Tricks category. But my disposition is, generally speaking, light and fun. I love to laugh and look for the silly side of life when at all possible. I think that grownups are way too serious and full of gloom. Ha! Look at me, talking about gloom and how grownups need to lighten up, when here I am writing about manic depression.

On the other hand, you might not like me, as I can be loud and obnoxious, I love practical jokes, like to drink beer with my friends and can carry on like a class A dork sometimes. But hey, I’m a guy, and somewhere it is written that all guys have to behave like a dork (class A) from time to time. (It’s the law, and who am I to challenge it?)

Whether you ever meet me in person or not, I think you are going to meet me through this story. It kind of scares me to share it with you. I feel a bit like my emotional undies are hanging out to dry, but since I really don’t embarrass much, I reckon it’s OK, and so I invite you in for a peek at what has happened to me, and how my God, my family and friends, and a few doctors and little pills, helped me to remain here a while longer to practice being a dork.

Step back, people!

DIABETES OF THE BRAIN

In 1988 I became mentally ill and suffered a severe depression that nearly killed me. Like, dead, over and done with, end of story, finis, done and gone. Eventually I would be diagnosed with manic depression, or Bipolar Syndrome, with a side of seasonal affective disorder as a garnish. It came to me out of left field, with no warning signs, no medical or emotional indicators that maybe I should run for cover, ‘cause son, you’re going down.

Over the course of many years, I have learned to live with this condition. I think of it as diabetes of the brain. A diabetic takes insulin and watches his diet and activity level. A BP boy like me takes Lithium or other medication, and does his best to surf through life in one piece and watch for the warning signs of mania and depression. While I would very much like to walk away from it, I can’t. I didn’t choose it. It chose me.

I am not complaining about this, nor am I looking for pity. Only understanding. I recognize the simple fact that every human being carries some kind of problem or difficulty around with them. We all have some kind of ‘cross to bear.’ I’m not looking for an award as to why my problem is worse or better than yours. This isn’t a contest. Trust me, you don’t want my problem, and I don’t want yours. Perhaps the things that we share can bring us together and the things we have in common can unite us. I don’t know.

We all have tough things we live with. We all have things that make us feel weak and make us feel tough. This is the story of my toughness and weakness and how, maybe, I’m much like you. And if not, you can have the satisfaction of saying, ‘Wow, I’m glad I’m not like him! Please God, don’t EVER let me become like him. But wait, he’s not really so bad, or so weird. And he tells an OK story. How messed up can he be?’

I’m not the crazy homeless guy on the corner who is so completely whacked out in his head that he can’t function beyond mere survival. I’m the crazy guy next door who for the most part is doing fine, thanks to medicine, family and God. You don’t even know I’m there, and that’s OK. Don’t be afraid. As Franklin Roosevelt said, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Because I have a mental disorder, mental illness if you will, I have the right to say ‘crazy’ and ‘whacko.’ I have the right to joke about it, because I know it intimately. I own it, and it is mine to joke about. I do not worry about being politically correct. Having said that, I mean no offense by my words written here to anyone with a mental disorder of any kind, and offer you, in advance, peaceful apologies from a brother in arms.

WELCOME TO MY HEAD

Hopefully this story will not be, in the words of my good friend Bill Ressler, a Buzz Kill. A buzz killer is someone who says or does something that profoundly reduces in a negative way the feeling within a group of people, usually in a social setting. Buzz in this case does not mean drug induced, but attitude and state of mind. It would be like being at a party, going up to a group of people who are laughing and carrying on and saying, This party sucks. That’s a buzz killer, and I hope that this story does not kill your buzz and maybe, just maybe, will help you build a better buzz. (Whatever you say, John.)

Being Bipolar, or manic-depressive, means living on a roller coaster and trying to find a way to flatten out the slopes. Manic moments can be profoundly beautiful and inspiring, while also turning you into a complete jerk. Depressive moments basically suck, but even they can be used, after you get over them, to balance and better understand all that is good and right in the world. The goal for BPs is to find and maintain a zone of normalcy that is neither too hot, nor too cold. Not too light, or too dark. Just right is hard to find, especially if you don’t live in a storybook.

Being Bipolar means accepting that you are living in a world where mentally ill people are, uh… crazy, and should be avoided! (Run for your lives!!) Actually, there’s probably, to date, never been a better time to be mentally ill! We have come a long way from the days of electro-shock therapy when someone who was diagnosed with manic depression might enjoy a life in a state institution. Goin’ to the Funny Farm. General public acceptance of mental illness has improved over the years, but a BP person is still marked as different. And we are, with a BP tattoo on our souls that doesn’t stand for British Petroleum. Perhaps in the future there will be no stigma to it at all. One can hope for all those who experience it down the road – our children and grandchildren. Or perhaps there will be a cure – anything’s possible, but for now, in the early years of the 21st century, we have to accept it, and cope with it.

Being Bipolar means doing your best to cover up your malady so that the world sees you mostly as normal. The beauty of this, of course, is that by the time your brain makes the switch to your new BP state, you ain’t normal no mo, bro. But you WISH to be normal, so you try try try to put on a good face and prove to the world that you are one of them, not one of those. But guess what? You already are one of those.

I am including journal entries from that point in my life, 1988-89, when I went down into the pit of depression and lost my life as I knew it. I began to keep the journal as a way to express and record what was happening to me. It is painful for me to go back now and see myself in the beginning without a clue as to what was happening. But also enlightening to me, to see how my faith wavered, then became strong, up and down she goes, where she stops, nobody knows. To see how I am the same and different, how I’ve grown. Or not grown. (Some things never change.)

Some of the journal entries have strong language. I originally wrote them purely for myself with no intention of sharing it with the world. Sometimes I showed my wife, but that’s about it. This was my PRIVATE journal. I have thought long and hard about whether or not to include the language. My pastor, Michael Simone, told me that the language may make it tough for some Christians to take. He was right! So I have changed the offensive words in this printing to !@#$%%!, the way they do it in cartoons.

I am not trying to be gratuitously rude, and I am not trying to shock you. Just trying to accurately share my state of mind at the time. The state of mind of a man with a brain illness.

What you read may upset you because it is strong. This book was not written to make those who do not suffer from brain illnesses feel good, but to honestly share my life in hopes of helping others like me, and their loved ones. For everyone else, open up your hearts and your minds and please leave your stereotypes at the door. No baggage allowed!

Consider yourself warned and read on at your own risk. (And welcome to my head.)

Journal entry- November 5, 1988, 10:30 am

Well, I guess this is my first diary, journal, or whatever. I really can’t understand how I got here. Life has been so easy and fun up to now.

At this moment I am at the office! A Saturday… ! !@#!!%. I decided to come in ‘cause I felt behind. I am behind. Lots of paperwork. All that !@$#!! traveling. I hate sitting on planes. I feel helpless, at mercy of someone. I feel very restless right now.

I thought about fasting on the way in. Clean out my guts. My stomach is bothering me pretty much constantly. It feels like adrenaline pumping in. Like butterflies before a big game. I really feel spaced out from lack of sleep. Or maybe the stupid sleeping pills.

THE ALARM CLOCK

The first onset of BP came upon me in 1988, when I was 30. I have no idea why it waited until then to hit me, but it did. I don’t know if there was some kind of genetic alarm clock or time bomb that was simply waiting for my life to hit the mark and trip the switch inside my head.

And what a switch it was. Like a railroad track inside my head, the freight train of my life suddenly switched to a track I had never been on before. A dark track of valleys, hills and deep tunnels. Of immense fear and moments of supreme clarity and joy. My life as I had come to know it was over, and would never be the same again.

My brain was taking me on a trip that I had not signed on for, and didn’t want. But how do you argue with the brain, your most mysterious, potent and complex organ? It is the master of imagery, the faker and maker of emotions, feelings and absolute medical reality. The master of bodily functions, palpitations, secretions and pain. It’s one thing if your spleen or pancreas goes haywire, and another thing entirely when it’s your brain. Because the brain pulls all the strings.

One day maybe they will be able to tell us exactly when bad things are going to happen to us. When the alarm clock will ring. You’ll get a check up and they’ll say, ‘Hmmm, in 25-26 months, you are going to suffer a severe depression. When you do, take this pill and you’ll be fine. One day I think the brain will be understood as well as the heart. But not anytime soon. The brain is one complicated and wonderful mechanism, and it can outsmart you. Outsmart the doctors. Outsmart the world.

Journal entry- November 5, 1988, 10:30 am

SUICIDE!!! That would be the easy way to end this bad feeling. I have been thinking about it because I can’t control my thoughts. I know I won’t do it though. OK? OK. OK.

Reasons to die:

Stop the pain of indecision

No sleep

To give up

Reasons to live:

Enjoy life

Patty & Kimberly

My family

People who rely on me

Because I am the temple of the holy spirit

Be successful

Having fun

When I can’t sleep it is very black and I am at my lowest and thinking about S (suicide) a lot. I can’t seem to relax and/or control my thoughts.

I WANT TO HAVE DREAMS AGAIN. When I am awake and when I am asleep. Why can’t I go inside myself and be at peace? Is something in there scaring me?

I need to like myself again. Better to love myself. I am such a happy !@%!! usually. I am tired of this close examination of myself. Let’s cut the crap and get on with life again. %@!!$ the no sleeping! %@!!$ the indecision! Rah Rah shish cum bah!!!

TOUGH GUYS

Everyone knows that tough guys keep their mouths shut. And everyone knows that guys want to be tough, as tough as possible. There is an unwritten rule that you don’t ever show your weaknesses to the world. After all, if you did, you would show the world ways to get to you, ways to take advantage of your weaknesses. (Weaknesses, as in more than one.)

Guys learn early on to not let other guys, or the rest of the world, know when something bothers them. A kid who cried in class would be ridiculed and shown to be a complete and total wuss. A guy who can’t take a joke and grief given by friends won’t last as long among the same friends. No guy ever wants to be labeled tenderhearted. You have to suck it up, take it in, and then give it back. A friendly sport of spearing among guys.

The good news about guys is that, while the attack, joke, humiliation, whatever, can be sharp and fierce, it is usually over pretty quickly. And forgotten. They tell me this is not the case with women. I don’t know about that. What I DO know is that in the Book of Guys, one of the laws is Thou Shalt Not Be Weak.

Hmmm, what to do? Because the fact is that every guy, every girl, every human, has moments of weakness. Like, duh! Of course we do. What could be more simple and obvious. For the most part, we are taught to hide our weakness and cover up our doubts. Thank God for that! Can you imagine if everyone walked around moaning about how tough their lives are? Ack! Loony Bin.

Which leads me to the reason why I am writing about how tough my life is. Not. My life has been, and remains, quite wonderful. For me, life is a bowl of sugar. This story is about the few grains of arsenic sprinkled in that bowl – the few things that make my life a little tougher. They, too, add spice to my life, and I am thankful for all that I have, all that I am, including the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly.

I am a tough guy, but I’m not afraid to admit that I am weak. I am not afraid to tell you that I live with a mental illness. But I am not whining about any of this. Can you hear what I am saying? I am not a whiner! (Please, God, don’t let me be pegged as a whiner. Anything but that.)

The problem is that in order for me to tell my story, I have to tell you everything, the horrible darkness that I fell to, and the wonderful light that calls us all back to God, and all that is good in this world. Forgive me if some of this is a downer. Trust me when I tell you that, on balance, my life is good. Remarkable, really. I am a blessed man.

Sometimes things seem so good that I look over my shoulder and say to God, ‘OK, this is nice, now where’s the catch?’ When I have so much of the upside in this life, shouldn’t there be a downside? Maybe not.

Journal entry- November 5, 1988, 10:30 am (cont.)

How did this !%#! start? I am nervous about getting work done. Did I stop working so hard? Did Kimberly coming and my desire to be with her more cause me to resent my work and give it less effort?

Am I trying to lose my job on purpose? NO WAY!!!!

I think it all comes down to anxiety and a feeling of inadequacy and a sense of being overwhelmed with life.

I know I can do it ‘cause I already have. I just have to believe in myself and know I am totally capable. I really don’t want to continue taking the pills but I will anyway. I will take 2 now because 1 is not enough for the whole night.

Forty-five minutes have passed and I feel sleepy and more relaxed. I think this must be good for me to do. I hope that soon I can look back at these pages and feel back to normal again. That’s what really scares me is staying this way. Yuk. Its got to stop. OK?

BLAME WHO?

One thing’s for sure, and I believe this with all my heart and soul, God does not want us to be unhappy. Why would he? We are his children and he created us in his image. How cool is that?! A parent wants his child to be happy and safe and secure, and it is the same with our father in heaven. Can you see the truth in what I say? This is really important, because there are a lot of people, including Christians, who believe that all things happen because of God. Or, to put it more succinctly, God makes all things happen.

There is truth to this, in my opinion, only from the standpoint that God created all things, and our world and the balance of nature comes from him. God created the world, and then, for the most part, our lives are shaped by what we do, and by a natural course of events that lead us eventually to the end of this life. But we are part of nature and WE can affect nature. We can change the course of events and what happens to us by how we act, live and believe. God gave us some control over nature. But we can’t change all things ourselves, nor do we hold dominion over all disease and the bad things that can, and do, happen to us.

I believe in the Forrest Gump version of philosophy. Some things are destined, and THOSE are perhaps the things that God has shaped and are concrete parts of our lives. But other things in our life just happen based on nature, and with a certain amount of randomness. Thus, life is like a box of chocolates and you never know what you’re going to get means that… things just happen because we live in this beautiful world and IT JUST HAPPENS because that was the way that the wind blew on that particular day, and maybe there is no reason at all to some things happening.

Or they happen because some events follow the laws of nature, a nature that was created by God, to be sure, but a nature that can be random in its selection of who to choose for termination or any number of ‘bad things.’ Nature is part of the mortality that we live with, and we must suffer the consequences from time to time.

Therefore, when we become sick, we should NOT blame it on God. We could blame our nitwit genetic forefathers and mothers for sinning in the Garden and shaping our earthbound mortality. But we are all God’s children, and the same people who have cursed us with sin and all the evils of mankind, have blessed us with the wonders of creation, creativity, art, beauty, life, love, joy, sex, ha ha, that’s right, I said it! All the things that we long for and lust for and hunger for were brought to us by the big dude in the sky, and we should always thank him, but never blame him.

It’s just that simple folks. I speak the truth. Oh yeah, this is another one of those truths that WE’LL NEVER KNOW UNTIL WE DIE. Hmm, death seems to be a theme in this story, and so it will be. But hopefully life overcomes death in the end, and we will live on and BEYOND, as Buzz Lightyear always says. I have faith that this is true. My faith is strong enough for this story and you will have to trust me and be sure that what I say is absolutely true for me.

I see and feel God around me most of the time, even in the midst of my darkest moments of depression. That is not to lessen the gun-to-the-head aspect of my condition, or the ability of it to ruin my life if I let it. My weakness can make me strong, but it can also make me feel very weak, alone and sad.

Hopefully this story will help others who do not suffer from BP to better understand what it is like to live with it, and to treat those who suffer from BP as real human beings. After all, we are all children of God, all of us brothers and sisters from the same family.

I also hope this story will help those who DO live with BP to use their faith in God, along with their meds, family, friends and other interventions, to help get them through the ups and downs of their lives. I am writing this story to help me better understand where I’ve been and who I am, and to honor God, who has saved me more than once in my life.

Journal entry- November 5, 1988, 2:20 pm

I’m alone at home with Kimberly. I feel tired and still kind of spaced out. Kind of a sense of unreality to things. My stomach is still working and I have butterflies. I only had juice for lunch. I think I might try fasting to see if it helps my stomach any. The missing factor seems to be sleep. Since Thursday night I have had a strange muscle spasm in my left shoulder. Maybe I pulled something when I ran Thursday night.

I am frightened of something. Or am I? If my stomach problem is psychosomatic then my mind is screwing up my stomach. But it could be the opposite.

No matter which way I need to STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. It is running my life right now. I am more into dealing with how I feel than feeling life. I just want to let go and have a good time again.

EXPERT OPINIONS

Well, alrighty then. When I began writing this, I just wanted to get it out, vomit the words and then kind of, uh, rework them a bit. But then I thought perhaps I should read some other books written by ‘experts’ in the field who know what REALLY happens to the brain, and what BPs REALLY go through. Hmm, yes, perhaps I should do my homework and find out more about this stuff.

Nah! At this point I just don’t want to. Not that I don’t care about what the experts say. Not that I don’t want to be accurate. On the contrary. I do care, and I HAVE read and researched some books and articles about BP over the years. But certainly not enough to call myself an expert.

Even so, this is my story, and this happened to me, and no matter what the experts think or say, they do not know the complete truth of what happened to me, nor are they nearly as intimate, accurate and expert about me as I am. I’ve studied myself for over 45 years now, so maybe that gives me the right to write about my life in the guise of an expert. (Rubber gloves, please.)

Of course, my experience regarding my brain with experts were not always enlightening and thrilling. It could be difficult and unfulfilling. They just couldn’t tell me what I wanted to know, or needed to know. And some of them were, to put it mildly, pompous about their expertise. I remember one mental health expert I met. When I used the term manic depressive, she corrected me, and said that, ‘we use the term Bipolar now.’ I stopped for a second and thought about that. Then I told her that I WAS Bipolar, and I could call it anything I wanted. She agreed with my big bad feisty self. Ha, what power. BPs of the world, UNITE!

Having said all that, I do not want to pretend for one moment to completely understand everything about my brain or ANY