The Crazy Twins: Surviving Bipolar and Alzheimer's

By Spencer Swalm

After a devastating breakup, Spencer Swalm underwent a dramatic conversion to Christianity as a young man. But while his newfound faith saved his soul, his life continued to spiral. Beginning with a two-week, involuntary commitment to a psychiatric hospital after a hunting trip gone bad, his life with bipolar disorder became a series of wild rid

• Language: English
• Publisher: Illumify Media
• Release date: Jul 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959099444

Book preview

1

Write What You Know and What Others Want to Learn

Over a tasty plate of pad thai at Tuk Tuk, I had a heart to heart with Kathie Reiner, the lady who’s been helping me with this blog for years.

Spencer, she said in her very matter-of-fact way, if you ever want your blog to be anything more than a hobby, you have to very specifically identify what interests your readers, and then help them solve their problems. We’ve talked about this before. You know how to write. But you have to get and stay focused. You can’t jump from topic to topic if you ever want to get anywhere. In the world of social media, it’s called addressing an avatar.

Yes, I replied, "and I know I’ve pretty much ignored your advice. But I’ve been giving it some thought. And I’m ready to clean up my act.

You know I’m bipolar. And have been for decades. I’ve blogged about it. When I was in my early twenties, I was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital for two or three weeks.

And I’m not alone. Millions of Americans suffer from some form of mental illness. And when you add in the family members and loved ones that have to deal with the consequences of those disorders, there are countless more impacted by mental health issues. I could write posts on this topic, I concluded, until the cows come home. And come nowhere near exhausting the subject.

I’ve eaten quite a lot of Asian food over the last few years. My daughter’s married to great guy who’s half Korean, and I don’t think they ever turn off their rice cooker. So, I’ve become quite adept at chop sticks; I was done with my pad thai before Kathie was done with whatever she was eating with her fork.

But, you know, I said between mouthfuls, does this mean that I have to quit posting about political issues altogether?

No, she answered, politicians deal with mental health issues all the time. You probably voted on some yourself.

Very true, I answered, laying aside my chop sticks for a moment. They came up routinely.

But to start with, continued Kathie, you need to make it clear to your readers, your avatars, that you’re headed in a new direction. And when you do post on politics, start by focusing on those issues that intersect with mental health. After that, when you’ve built up a following of tens of thousands, she said with a sly smile, go anywhere your heart desires. Just not too often.

So, there you have it. My blog, more or less, had a focus on mental health issues. And this book is a collection of the blog posts that focus more, not less, on my brain struggles: one of which I’ve had basically all my life, bipolar. The other being a recent dilemma, incipient dementia—or Alzheimer’s. I hope you will be encouraged by my stories with these crazy twins.

2

Why Formerly Honorable?

Iwas at the dentist’s getting my teeth cleaned today. As is the customary practice in such circumstances, the pleasant young hygienist asked me a question that I couldn’t answer till I had finished swishing out my mouth and she had sucked the fluid away with the little straw.

Are you still in the legislature?

No, I replied, flat on my back, peering through the protective dark glasses, I was term limited out of office last January. Before she plunged her hands back in my mouth, I managed to get out, You can now call me the ‘formerly honorable’.

She chuckled. So you haven’t done anything wrong? But what did you think of your time down at the capital? Was there anything in particular you were able to accomplish?

My answer, while necessarily abbreviated, was the one I usually give: it was a great eight-year run. I wouldn’t have missed it. But I was also ready to move on; I’ve gone back to my insurance business, and we have a wonderful new granddaughter (our first), who lives just down the road. Did I achieve anything of note? I bobbed and weaved: I was only one of a hundred Colorado legislators. But I met a bunch of wonderful people; it’s almost impossible not to when you have spent countless hours during four campaigns knocking on countless doors talking to countless constituents.

So the plan is that this blog will play some part in the next stage of this formerly honorable politician’s life. Give me a platform to comment, occasionally, on those things that I think need commenting on. Maybe even on the hygienist herself, a bright, lovely young woman three years married who, when I ventured that her parents would probably like to see grandkids of their own replied, We like our life as it is. And we like our dogs.

Go figure. And stay tuned.

3

Brother, can you spare a dime?

This last Sunday evening I made a quick trip to our local, suburban grocery store. As I left the nearly empty parking lot and waited at the red light to turn on to Arapahoe Road, a young/old woman stood to my left holding a worn cardboard sign that read, Single mom need help.

I quickly went through the usual mental gymnastics: Are you really a single mom? If I give you a dollar, will it just go up in smoke or something worse? Or really help the kids? That she was a woman cinched it for me; I don’t give money to men standing at stop lights.

I pushed the down button on the passenger window and said, Hey, I have something for you. I hurriedly pulled a dollar from my wallet; the light could change any time. She acted like she hadn’t heard me; she could hardly see my car, let alone me, with the sun just above the mountains to the west blasting into her eyes. I tried again, louder, Ma’am, here’s a dollar.

She heard me this time and took off the dark glasses that were doing a poor job of protecting her from the glare. Sorry, she said, coming closer. I couldn’t see you.

She reached into the car; I handed her the bill. She thanked me and backed away. The light changed. And I pulled onto Arapahoe.

What is our city, and country, coming to?

I grew up in Denver. The only memory I have as a youth of panhandlers is one I would like to forget. In high school, some friends and I went down to skid row, which, believe it or not, was where Larimer Square is now. We brought some pliers, some dimes, and some matches. We had a great time watching the wretches on the sidewalk burn themselves as they scrambled to pick up the coins we pitched out the windows.

Aside from that shameful experience, I have no recollection of begging in this town back then. But now it is commonplace to see one, two, or even three ragged souls at intersections holding up limp cardboard signs throughout the city. Even in quite suburban areas on a quiet Sunday evening.

Do I know what to do about it? No.

But I do have some thoughts on causes.

First, broken families spawn broken people. In a whole range of ways, virtually every study agrees that divorce or bearing children out of wedlock negatively impacts everyone involved. Divorced parents and single mothers are more likely to be in poverty. Which, of course, spills down to the children. But the problems kids face go beyond poverty. Children in these scenarios are more likely to do poorly in school, be involved in crime, act out sexually, and abuse drugs.

Will a stable marriage solve all these problems? And mean that we see fewer panhandlers on Denver streets? Almost certainly not. But how could it hurt to set it as a goal?

Second, undiagnosed mental illness often plays a role in panhandling and homelessness. And this is something I am qualified to speak about from personal experience. I am bipolar. In my early twenties I was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital for two weeks and put on medication. But like many in my situation, when I was released, I quit taking the medication. I don’t need that stuff.

For the next thirty years I was on a roller coaster. Sometimes maniacally high. But much more frequently in the grip of the black dog of depression. True, I was never homeless, but I was suicidal many times. But I was blessed to be surrounded by a supportive family that was more than enough reason to keep living. Now I see a psychiatrist quarterly and take daily medication. But take it from me, mental illness is debilitating.

I can see how someone can wind up on a street corner holding up a Single mom need help sign. But what to do about it is another matter.

4

On Pins and Needles

One of the many bills I heard when serving on the Health, Insurance, and Environment Committee when I represented Centennial in the Colorado House dealt with ear acupuncture. The testimony, which I initially took with a grain of salt—actually, a truck load of salt—was that sticking pins in the ears of someone suffering from mental illness could effect a cure, or at least relieve the symptoms.

I began to sit up and take notice when the witnesses, including a woman named MK Christian, began talking about the work they were doing at the state mental hospital in Pueblo. She made it sound as if they were having considerable success. And, when more conventional, allopathic doctors supported their claims, it really got my attention. They said it helped the patients sleep better and reduced their dependence on medication.

I am bipolar. As is fairly typical, I originally manifested the illness as a young adult. While Churchill’s black dog of depression was my more usual companion, I had bouts of mania as well. External events often contribute to and exacerbate the mood swings, which was certainly the case with me.

In my early twenties I broke up with a long-time girlfriend. I was desperate, suicidal, broken on the rock of my sin. I wondered into a church and less than an hour later came out as a newly minted Christian. It was as if someone had popped the top of a champaign bottle; I was effervescent.

Unfortunately, a few days later I went on a pheasant hunting trip with my father and some of his friends. Believe it or not, guns and mania don’t work all that well together. No one got hurt, but my father, understandably, was deeply concerned about some of my bizarre behavior.