In what can be described as a massive play on words, a small team of adventurers is setting out for the North Pole today, with the goal of raising funds for research into bipolar disorder.

The team of 4 are currently on the island of Spitsbergen in Norway. They are spending two days of preparations, testing skis, packing sleds with food and gear, and outfitting their polar clothing, before flying by Antonov-74 aircraft to the Ice Station Borneo.

(Has anyone else read “Ice Station” by Matthew Reilly? Ouch!)

Actually Borneo is a Russian scientific base, erected in April each year on the the moving ice flows in the heart of the Arctic Ocean.

On the 16th they will fly by Mi-8 helicopter to around 50km of the North Pole depending on current drift rate of the floating ice. From there they will spend 4-5 days skiing and sled hauling to the Pole, dragging themselves through the incredible icescapes of the the Arctic Ocean, with iconic features like pressure ridges, rubble, and leads of open water.

At this time of year daylight is enjoyed 24-hours a day, a blessing for those with SAD!

Although I’m glad they’re not going in May or June.

The objective of the expedition is very worthy – to raise medical research funds and increase awareness about Bipolar Disorder. If you want to get on board, with financial support or otherwise, then it’s not too late. To read more visit the BiPolar Expedition website.

I love my children.

It’s ironic how I feel the need to open with a disclaimer…but parenthood has not turned out to be the fairytale experience I’d imagined. Maybe it’s never wise to go into any situation with pre-conceived ideas of how it should go…you’re just setting yourself up for a whole lot of confusion.

I’d always wanted children, so after two surgeries to correct infertility and two unexplained back-to-back miscarriages, I’d begun to wonder if motherhood was something I’d ever get to experience.

The irony that our first-born son was diagnosed at 2 ½ with autism is not lost on me. Neither is the quirk of fate that led me to discover I’d become pregnant with our second-born son right around the same time.

The night T was born, he lay on the table as they cleaned him up and he screamed as if in excruciating pain. It was alarming. I remember asking the nurse if something was wrong and she replied, “No honey…nothing’s wrong. He just wants to be picked up. You are going to have your hands full with this one.”

Truer words were never spoken.

T has always been a willful child. I’d chalked most of his mood swings up to being a second-born, especially since his brother required quite a bit of attention. It wasn’t until around age 10 that we first heard the word bipolar. By this time, he’d become obstinate, irate and at times, downright belligerent. I remember wondering how a child so young could feel everything so…deeply. And, if he had to feel angry and upset…then so did I. He gave new meaning to the phrase “you always hurt the one you love”. I felt like I walked around with a permanent knife sticking out of my back…with a sign that said “twist here whenever you like! I’m here for you, babe!” He’d perfected early on the ability to use his words like weapons. That, combined with his above average IQ meant a whole lot of hurtful words that almost always hit their mark.

One day, around his 11th birthday I was taking him for a “Part 3” of a psych evaluation. He initially refused to get out of the car. When I finally cajoled him into entering the medical center, he refused to follow any of the doctor’s directions. He then made a crucial mistake: he casually announced to me that he’d rather kill himself and me…than ever deal with any of this again. He’d said it so matter-of-factly. If this was a mood swing, we’d hit rock bottom.

The doctors took his threat seriously and sent him to a psychiatric hospital for an unprecedented (by today’s insurance get ‘em in, get ‘em out as quick as possible practice) 7 ½ weeks of treatment. During that time, they tried an array of medications, talk-therapy (the doctors and parents talked, T simply sat there and dozed) and group therapy. In the end, he was released with a diagnosis of bipolar and was on several medications for the mood swings, including lithium.

Today, T is almost 18 years old. He graduates from high school in June and plans to go to college. Medication and diagnosis are always in the background, but he’s still done well in school, has a circle of a few very good friends and even has a serious girlfriend.

Still, the mood swings persist. I’d say 80% of the time he’s a fun-loving, witty, dynamic, creative, fabulous kid. But if he’s tired (and he often has trouble sleeping), he makes Jekyll and Hyde look like Bambi and Thumper. He’ll become challenging and combative and will argue circles around you…seemingly reveling in the experience of the argument more so than looking to make an actual point. His frustration and sense of entitlement are palpable…and intense. Arguments with him leave me feeling bloody, exhausted and immeasurably concerned for his future.

And then, it passes. Hours later, he’s calm…will probably have gotten in a long nap…and he’s apologizing for the outburst. My witty, loving son has returned. It’s like the sun peeking through the clouds after a surprise, intense thunderstorm…and the air is fresh and sweet…and full of…hope.

I’ve got a good feeling that he’ll be okay. As for me, my love for him allows me to practice the parental-refined art of selective amnesia when it comes to healing the emotional scars left by his razor-sharp words. That, and a lifetime supply of antibiotics…and I hope to be just fine as well.

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This is the first of a couple of guest posts on loving someone with bipolar. The second post is Loving Someone with Bipolar. Thank you Kathryn!

In the 2007 volume of the Primary Care Companion to the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry there is a study titled “Quality of Life Among Bipolar Disorder Patients Misdiagnosed With Major Depressive Disorder”. A mouthful, I know.

The study hits on some home truths for me. After being diagnosed with depression by my family doctor, I spent two or three years trying different anti-depressants without success. It was an awful period of my life. My doctor labelled me “treatment resistant” and explained that the medicines were “pooping out”.

After persevering for far too long I decided to see a psychiatrist. Not more than a few minutes into my first appointment with him, he said that “poop-out” doesn’t really exist. What appears to be “poop-out”, he explained, is more likely the result of incorrect diagnosis and inappropriate treatment. He was on the mark. His diagnosis of my illness was bipolar disorder not depression, and I enjoyed a significant improvement in health following appropriate changes to my medications.

The conclusion of the study is that people with bipolar disorder that are misdiagnosed as having major depression have a poorer quality of life than those with correctly diagnosed major depression or bipolar disorder. This makes sense to me. If the diagnosis is wrong then the treatment can be ineffective, or even counterproductive. Over time a person’s frustration and sense of hopelessness will only increase as the prospects for getting better appear to be vanishing.

It’s an important fact that bipolar disorder is hard to diagnose. The average length of time from onset to correct diagnosis is over 10 years and perhaps as high as 15. It was more than 10 years for me, and it never occurred to me once that I had bipolar. That is, until after diagnosis when my wife and I scrutinised my past behavior. Hypomania, which is more common than mania, can be hard to detect, especially if you aren’t on the lookout for it.

What to look out for? The symptoms of hypomania are many and varied, but some of the common ones are racing thoughts, a reduced need for sleep, increased energy, inflated self esteem, lack of concentration, an excessive sense of well-being and reckless behaviour. I have experienced all of these. Often the person with hypomania will enjoy their symptoms, as will their partners when they renovate the house while everyone is asleep. Unfortunately what goes up tends to come back down, and in my experience hypomania can spiral out of control and end badly.

The conclusion to this? If you are suffering from severe depression, but you aren’t making progress with your treatment, then it may be worth your while to have a second opinion. You might also think about whether you’ve had exuberant periods in your life as well as depression.

Just about everyone is reading it. Are you?

Click here for my review of the book, here for the first chapter,
here for some very favorable reviews on Amazon, or here for
the author’s website.

(No affiliate links or gratuities received. Just a great book.)

This is the first chapter from the remarkable book Invisible Driving by Alistair McHarg. If you missed the interview read it here.

The Empty Car

These are glory days for Invisible Driving. I’ve discovered the core position, The Empty Car. While performing The Empty Car I’m in the driver’s seat with feet on pedals in the normal arrangement but all of me above waist level is bent over, resting on the passenger’s seat. I have the mirrors set so that I can still see perfectly well but to all observers the car is unoccupied. It’s incredibly funny. We’re talking radnopolis funny. Impossible for me to pull this maneuver without cracking up into a squizzling, snerchified hysterical laughter. I laugh with a nervous, giddy delight at the sheer absurdity of it. I laugh with a childish delight at the outrageousness of it. I laugh with an anxious excitement, agitated by the risk. But I laugh most uncontrollably as I imagine the reactions of the passengers in the cars who see this apparition. The ghost car. This is my only regret, that I never get to hear the comments of the people who have this performance foist, and the foist shall be last and the last shall be foist, upon them. How does one react when one confronts the thing which cannot be? Eh? See? If, as a teenager, you ever mooned a busload of senior citizens, that is, exposed your naked behind to them from a moving automobile, you have an idea of some of the facial expressions I encounter when I reemerge from my crouch. Contempt. Shock. Surprise. Extippitox squatchifromp. Amazement. Naturally it’s the kids who enjoy it most. Unlike so many of the adults who try to ignore this inexplicable phenomenon, the kids point, laugh, jump up and down, and stare. Once, I slowed down at a stoplight after a particularly long stretch of invisibility to find myself, which was an enormous relief because I’d been looking for myself everywhere, being applauded by a carload of black youths. It’s not unusual for cars to follow me for miles as though their drivers are trying to reconfirm that they are indeed seeing what they think they’re seeing. An empty car driving down the road, obeying speed limits and other traffic regulations. I’ve started to see some of the same cars with a certain regularity. They follow me, forming a kind of train. Talk about building a following, talk about squazmogrified pontippelation. Taking my show on the road. This invention will certainly cinch my claim to fame, and the fortune that comes along with it. If it’s ever been done before I’m certainly unaware of it. Surely such a unique, delightful, original gift to society deserves compensation.

Downtown Invisible Driving is the most difficult but provides the biggest rewards. Though my hyper-awareness, my sensitivity to everything going on around me, makes it easier it’s still a risky occupation but isn’t greatness always risky, it’s only mediocrity that offers no challenge. I don’t want to ruin the fun by getting into an accident, or worse, being stopped by a policeman. So the stretches of Invisible Driving are short, short, but effective. A quick swoop down Chestnut Street during lunch hour is always successful. Lots of pedestrians. One notices, stops in his or her tracks, and sets off a whole wave of wonder. If George Bush was prancing down the street naked I can’t imagine there would be more dropped jaws. I’m also fond of driving up to my favorite spots at night, the hotels where there are always doormen and people coming in and out. I pull up very slowly, the black Volvo sedan, clean, conservative, quiet, purring up to the door, stealthy, driverless. I let the patrons get a good look and then cruise on. It’s wonderful, so goddamn funny I can’t believe it. A legend is being born. A modern day equivalent of the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

As the last days of January evaporate like snow from a sidewalk I hone and refine my repertoire. I told Claire about my discovery. She found it inspired, thinking of it in terms of performance art. With her permission, I rummaged through her workroom for props. Jackpot. Claire, who loves odd things and never throws anything away, has some bizarre artifacts, among them, a pair of Mickey Mouse hands. Rather, huge, white, plastic gloves. I use these, and one of her mannequins, in Invisible Driving stunts. The Mickey Mouse gloves serve in the Invisible Driving position I call, Look Ma, No Hands. I drive the car by steering with my knees and slip on the plastic hands. Then I hold up the enormous white gloves so that everyone can see that I’m driving without using my hands. There are many ways to drive a car and some of them are legal. I make elaborate use of them for hand signals, indicating a right turn by sticking my right arm out of the passenger’s window. Or, I hold them both up, palms forward, and rock them back and forth in tandem like twin pendulums on a demented cuckoo clock. If I’m not satisfied that I’m generating enough interest I stick them both out the window, left hand out of left window and right hand out of right window, and grip the roof as though if I let it go it will come flying off. This makes it clear to even the least astute observer that I’m driving without the use of my hands.

The mannequin makes it possible to perform, The Invisible Chauffeur. I set Claire’s mannequin up in the back seat, always careful to strap her in with the three-point seat belt. Safety first. Unfortunately Claire didn’t have a wig for her. Small surprise there, what Claire spends on cosmetics in a year wouldn’t pay my bar tab at the Four Seasons for a week. However I do have a sweater, scarf, and coat for her, and a hat. From a distance she’s convincing enough. And that’s what it’s all about. Illusion. Combine The Empty Car with a mannequin in the back seat and I have, The Invisible Chauffeur. This goes over particularly well at The Four Seasons, The Bellevue, and The Rittenhouse, all of which have highly visible approaches to their front doors. A woman sitting in the back seat of a conservative car, being driven to the door of a luxury hotel, is a commonplace sight. But on closer examination, the car has no driver. Why does the woman seem so composed, given these circumstances?

After a while the doormen at these places got the idea and they get quite a kick out of it. If there are patrons around they act appropriately disinterested but if it’s just them they laugh, drag their coworkers out of the hotel to catch a look, holler at me to come in, generally sign on. They get it. They’re on the bus. They’re street level, real people. I feel a kinship with them, we’re all in this together. They know I’m doing publicly what they do privately, mock the world they have to take seriously, the world of chauffeurs, the world of show furs, opulence, leisure. I’m becoming an underground celebrity which must explain why I’m coffin. McHarg, the only man to become famous by becoming invisible. But it’s not my aim to become famous, this is just something to amuse myself, and others, until stardom shows up at my door, relieved to have found me at last. I have an enormous appetite for entertainment, and a very short attention span.

Perhaps the most obscure of all the Invisible Driving positions is, A Day In The Life Of Isadora Duncan. This one is for double bonus points. I’m always wearing scarves, a stylish fashion accessory which I employ, though unemployed myself I am an employer, to maximum effect. I take the longest one, a wool number with a bright, predominately red Tartan, and gradually feed it out the window when another car is next to me. As it begins to whip in the wind I feed it out more until at last it stretches practically to the back of the car. By then, of course, I have the attention of the people in the car next to me. When I’m certain I have their full notice, and not just their thirty-day notice, I clutch my throat as though the scarf is choking me, pulling me out of the car. I panic, bug-eyed, making quite a production of it. At last I lay my head out of the window, tongue drooping ominously, like a dead deer. Are there any liberal arts majors out there who get this one? I don’t know. If there are, I hope they’ll save the last dance for me.

It’s For You is an Invisible Driving position in response to the popularity of car phones. Car phones are starting to become commonplace and I marvel at the self-important way that people use them, making sure to let everyone see that they have one. What could be so important that it can’t wait until they get home, or back to the office? It makes them feel important, and above all, productive in an upwardly mobile sort of way, to use a car phone. I took one of the phones from my house, since the service has been shut off there isn’t much else to do with them, and put it in my car. I spot some hot shot jabbering away on his car phone and I start jabbering away too, pretending to be talking to somebody. I shadow the car, staying right next to him in the adjoining lane so that we both stop at a traffic light at the same time. Then I honk my horn to get his attention and when I do, motion for him to roll down his window. This invariably provokes irritation and confusion. What fun. What squatch. What kind of fool am I, that likes to mess with heads? Mixing it up with the reptiles. Running circles round the squares. In most cases the person, nearly always a man, relents and rolls down the passenger’s side window. When he does I offer my phone to him and say with a totally deadpan expression, “It’s for you.” Anger, scowls, eyes rolling upwards towards heaven, unless of course heaven is not above in which case they’re merely rolling upwards towards the air pollution, the reactions are predictable. One guy did laugh. Another guy earned himself a permanent place in my personal pantheon by looking at me and cool as an assassin saying, “Just take a message and have him call me back.” That one cracked me up and God knows that doesn’t happen often enough. Bless the ones who get the joke and bless the ones who get on the bus.

As I drive invisibly I do a play-by-play monologue, as though I’m describing a ball game. “Now it’s an empty car. Now it’s a car with a person in the front passenger seat but no driver. I can’t believe I’m doing this with no hands. Now it’s a car being driven by a very, very, very short man. Now it’s a car being driven by a man with Mickey Mouse hands, and they’re not on the wheel.” The more I talk about it, the more rapanoochie it becomes. Of course, whenever I see a cop, I snap back into regulation status. “Now it’s a car being operated normally.”

One of the most challenging of the positions is, Nail It. Claire has taken to painting my toenails for some reason. God knows how long she’s had the nail polish. Say God, how long has she had the nail polish? No answer. I rest my case. I don’t think she has a message in it, rather, she just finds it a pleasant, hedonistic activity. A means of pampering that most neglected, hard working appendage, the foot. And, a splendid way to cap off an afternoon of toe sucking. So, in addition to a host of other quirks, including Rahsaan Roland Quirk, that one is for double bonus points, I’m now traipsing around town with bright purple toenails. When inclined, and even on level stretches of road, but folks, I remove my shoe and sock from my left foot and stick my left leg out the driver’s window and into the bitter, winter air. It’s difficult. The leg has to stretch quite a bit to do it. And in a car with a clutch, I always have to be ready to get the leg back inside at a moment’s notice in case I need to change gears. Awareness is key, but for the effect to work, I have to appear relaxed. Not an easy stunt and worthy of my growing acumen which I’d planted in the back yard and watered regularly. When I perform this one I’m careful to point out to the usually appalled spectators that my toenails are painted. I need them to know that I go the extra distance for them. After all, it’s details like these that separate the near great from the masters.

My intent is merely to delight. I discovered Invisible Driving one day and having discovered it I revel in it. I’m the soul of generosity, giving the world a unique gift. I’m certain that many of the drivers and pedestrians who witness these bizarre stunts are angered by my recklessness but there are others who understand. There’s no harm intended, least of all to others. This is humor. Not ethnic slur humor, not toilet humor. Concept humor. A sliver of divine absurdity slipped into an otherwise average day. Something to make you laugh, so we can both laugh.

Invisible Driving does have a dark side too, but this is not for public consumption. The dark side slithers out of the swamp in the middle of the night, on abandoned roads, when there are no people around to entertain. There are Invisible Driving positions that have an audience of one, just me. Positions like Stealth Bomber, where my car is guided by moonlight only, all lights having been switched off. Positions like Ray Charles, where navigation is by sound alone. And the ultimate in Invisible Driving, Ray Charles – Stealth Bomber Pilot. If my heart is beating, I must still be alive.

Read more sample chapters from the book at www.invisibledriving.com, or the many excellent reviews at Amazon.