David started working weekends when Sophie turned three. His business was booming, and he felt he needed more time with his clients. I didn’t complain. Sophie and I were two peas in a pod, delighted to move through our weekends with a mix of reading, walking and snacking, eating whenever we pleased, or lolling around at farmers’ markets or Oaks Park, an antiquated and charming amusement park on the outskirts of Portland. We took in funny movies; we spent hours in the children’s sections at Powell’s, the iconic bookstore of Portland. We swam at the neighborhood pool and afterward treated ourselves to shaved ice. On weekdays, we spent the morning and part of the afternoon together, before I headed to the station.
I was surprised I didn’t miss David more. Truthfully, the less we saw of one another, the better we all got along. Our relationship worked best when it was on David’s terms, when I didn’t push him or make him attend my numerous benefits or parties. We’d moved past the Jane episode without ever really processing how or why we’d survived it. There was so much left unsaid about why I’d decided to stay. If David had asked, I would have told him, “I won’t quit this family.” The truth was, I would learn to live without his love. Our sex life was so irregular that when we did move into one another’s bodies at night, it was fueled more by hunger than a need for intimacy.
Instead of talking about our difficult relationship, David had channeled his energy into a new direction—work. He said he wanted to be successful, a contrast to the laid-back business style he’d had when we first met.
One night, I invited David to join us after work at a Cuban place Sophie and I loved in northeast Portland. The colors of the restaurant, bold reds, oranges, and gold, suited us. I was thrilled when David said he could join us, and even happier when I spotted a small table for the three of us in our favorite corner.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.
“Thanks, D,” I said, relaxing into a rare moment of appreciation from him. I wore an aqua-blue tank top that set off my tan. I’d become strong and muscled again, swimming daily with Sophie and taking long walks with her to the park.
Families and hip young couples crowded into the restaurant. Sophie munched on tamales, much to the delight of the waitress, who was doting on her. We were both relaxed from a day at the pool.
David took a huge bite of rice and beans, then said, “Do you ever wish you could stop your head, you know, the voices that tell you you’re nothing, there is nothing, you live alone, you die alone?”
I put down my mojito. “What do you mean, voices? You mean like the constant chatter, the negativity we feed ourselves?”
He took another huge bite of rice and beans, not bothering to chew before he swallowed. He was simultaneously distracted and wrapped in his own thoughts.
“David,” I said, my voice heavy with worry. “Talk to me.”
He nodded his head, taking another huge bite and washing it down with a gulp of beer. He seemed ravenous, hurried, talking too quickly. “You mean you can escape your head? You can stop your chatter?”
He seemed to be filling in my half of the conversation, but I wanted to engage him, so I said, “Yes, whenever I can. I walk and try to concentrate only on the feeling inside my body. Sometimes at work, when things get hectic, I lock myself in a sound room and just breathe to interrupt the spinning. It helps, really.” I reached my hand across the table for his. He pulled away.
“Sometimes I just feel like such an imposter,” he said.
I put my napkin next to my plate, swallowing carefully. “Maybe you should talk to a psychiatrist.”
“Daddy, can I have an airplane ride?” Sophie interrupted.
David clipped her nose with his thumb. “In a minute, sugar,” he said. “Mommy and I are talking.”
“You aren’t yourself, David. I think you need help.”
He shot me a look of disdain. The clanking sound from the kitchen that had cheered me a half an hour ago now annoyed me. I wished I could wink the crowd away, silence the noise, like a director who edits her film. Instead, here I was, awkwardly, loudly tugging around the edges of my husband’s erratic emotions. “David, I am so worried about you. Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?”
“I don’t—no, I don’t want to talk about it.” Then he made his voice stronger, more decisive. “No. Because I’m going to give Sophs a plane ride!” He lifted our daughter from her chair, holding her high in the sky, his biceps flexing each time he lifted her up and down above the table.
“More, more!” Sophie said, smiling broadly, her arms out to the sides.
The waitress came by and cleared our table. “What a beautiful family,” she said, smiling at the three of us.
These days, when I drive by that restaurant and see its colorful tables, I remember the intense frustration I felt in never, ever being able to reach David, or to persuade him to get help.
As my sister says, “Well, he was a stubborn son of a bitch, Sheil.” The psychiatrists who would eventually treat David framed his behavior in the context of his mental illness, using terms like “recurrent hypomanic episodes,” “mild depressions,” and “anxiety disorder” to describe his reclusiveness, his isolation, and his fits of anger. They told me his explosive cursing, his infidelity, and his lies were “the illness talking.” David, the person, was exempt from his behavior.
But how much of David’s behavior was the illness and how much was the stubborn son of a bitch doing exactly what he pleased? Where did the illness begin and the self disappear?
David’s parents drove from Victoria to visit us in the fall of 2000. They had seen Sophie only twice, once at her christening, and then again as an infant at David’s sister’s home in Quadra. I was glad they’d be able to spend more time with their three-year-old granddaughter but worried about the stress David seemed to carry about everything.
He flew into a frenzy before their visit, resurfacing the hardwood floors, scrubbing kitchen windows, clearing out the silverware from the drawers and polishing it with silver cleaner, and then reorganizing it all in perfect rows. I’d never seen him like this before; in fact, we’d had several dinner parties to which David showed up half an hour before our guests arrived. This was definitely different behavior than I’d come to expect. I wasn’t sure if the frenzy was a good sign or a bad one. Maybe he was excited to see his parents again. Maybe he was dreading it. I knew it would only annoy him if I asked. David was never big on sharing.
On the evening of their arrival, Alice and Lew were later than expected. The dinner got cold. I’d prepared roasted vegetables, a tenderloin, and a northwest salad with cranberries, blue cheese, and walnuts. I imagined the tenderloin drying, the vegetables hardening, the salad losing its crunch.
Finally, Alice walked through the door carrying a grocery bag full of gifts, all in colorful wrapping with bows and ribbons flowing over the sides.
Sophie stood behind my leg, cautious. When she caught a glimpse of the presents, she wandered to Alice’s side. “Can I see?” she asked, clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Alice smiled and tipped the bag down toward her. “Presents—for you, my sweet. But not now—after dinner.”
Sophie’s smile dissolved. Oh no, I thought. Dinner will be a wreck now. And sure enough, it was. Alice and Lew took their time with the tenderloin, and Sophie couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep her eyes off the presents Alice had tucked away at the top of the fridge.
Another half an hour passed as David and Lew drank wine and I tried to stay engaged with Alice. By 9:45 p.m., Sophie was fried. Her face was splotchy, she twisted her body in uncomfortable positions, and then she crawled out of her chair and onto the floor, wailing.
“I want to open my presents!” she screamed. A full-blown tantrum was about to go down. I rushed from my chair to pick her up from the floor.
Suddenly, Lew bellowed, “DAVID! Control that child. Discipline her—now!” His face was as flushed as Sophie’s, and his eyebrows were pointed in a grim display of consternation.
Something went off in David, a bomb buried so deep he probably didn’t realize it was in him. He answered in an equally loud voice, unfamiliar to me, filled with more anger and anxiety than I’d ever heard before. “I will not have you tell me how to raise my child in my own home!”
I scooped Sophie up from the floor and ran to her bedroom, holding her in my arms. She was wailing, frightened by the fight unfolding in the living room. I heard a door slam. I didn’t know who had left. I tried to calm myself by changing Sophie into her pajamas. Her eyes were still wet with tears as I finished snapping her up.
I wrapped Sophie in a blanket and returned to the living room. Lew and Alice were putting their coats on and gathering their suitcases, still packed, at the living room door. Lew turned to me, his face still flushed with anger. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said. “But whatever you do, don’t spoil your children.”
I started to speak, to explain to him that it was past her bedtime and the presents had made it more difficult. He interrupted. “It’s clear David does not want us here. We’re going back to Victoria.”
I stammered the next words. “Where did David go?”
“Off,” Alice said. “David being David.” She put on her red coat and tied her scarf around her head.
The door closed. I sat in David’s chair as Sophie’s eyelashes batted slowly, heavily. She was fast asleep, the colorful presents still peeking out from the bag. Sophie would get to open them in the morning.
A week later I received a letter from Lew. It was written in careful handwriting.
Dear Sheila,
I am increasingly concerned about David’s fits of aggression and erratic behavior. I believe he should seek professional care. You may be aware that David abused drugs as a teenager, and I believe it drastically changed his mental acuity and stability. I am telling you this so that you can make the right decisions regarding his future care. It is unfortunate our visit was cut so short. All my love to you and Sophie, Lew.
I folded the letter several times over, considering its contents. I’d known plenty of people in high school and college who took the same drugs David used, garden-variety pot, acid, some cocaine. They were fine today. I couldn’t make sense of Lew’s ominous warning, and when I later asked David about it, he groaned and pointed out that there was nothing to suggest Lew had ever considered his parenting to be part of David’s problems. “He wasn’t exactly father of the year,” he said.
David refused to apologize; Lew did the same. Alice and I talked on the phone shortly after the disastrous visit, attempting to find some way of reconnecting these two stubborn, like-minded men. They refused to speak to each other, and I finally accepted their decision. But it worried me.
If David replicated this bizarre family behavior, he might one day convince himself he didn’t need his daughter either.
The National Alliance on Mental Illness says that nearly one-third of people with mental illness and approximately one-half of people with severe mental illness (including bipolar disorder and schizophrenia) engage in substance abuse. Drugs and alcohol can be a form of self-medication. People may feel that their anxiety or depression is less severe when they use drugs or alcohol. Unfortunately, drugs and alcohol don’t treat the underlying disorder and worsen mental illness.
The onset of psychosis during college years is particularly common, given the lack of sleep, an increase in stress, and experimentation with drugs and alcohol. David reported being unable to concentrate in college and having extreme difficulty sleeping. He also used drugs and alcohol during his teen years. David inevitably dropped out of college and showed worrisome signs that indicated his mental health was declining. He lost interest in the care of his apartment and his personal hygiene, he reported increased sensitivity to sights and sounds, and he withdrew from family and friends.
NAMI reports: “Abuse of drugs and alcohol always results in a worse prognosis for a person with mental illness. People who are actively using are less likely to follow through with the treatment plans . . . and more likely to miss appointments, which leads to more psychiatric hospitalizations and other adverse outcomes.”