The door slammed shut and I grabbed my forehead where I could feel a bump start to raise. I opened the bathroom door and walked into my room to find Abe sitting on the bed, reading Of Mice and Men.
"Oh, so you're my new roommate! Welcome, welcome! Please have a seat." Here sat the man that just moments ago was screaming uncontrollably into the phone and pacing like a rabid animal, up and down the hall. Now he seemed completely different, calm, collected, I would even go as far as to say normal.
"My name's Abe," he said.
"Nice to meet you, Abe. Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors."
Abe was a thin man in his mid 40s. His dark eyes were magnified by his thick, bottle cap glasses and his brown, manicured beard hid the wrinkles and other telltale signs of many long and strenuous years.
"So what brings you here to the Four Seasons Resort and Spa? Business or pleasure?" he joked.
I looked solemnly in his direction and attempted a half-smile.
"Bipolar Disorder," I whispered, barely audible, as if ashamed to reveal my weakness to a complete stranger.
"Well, what do you know ... .they put two manics in the same room, but by the looks of those bandages on your wrist I'd say you were dipping pretty low for the limbo. Are you a volunteer?"
Abe meant, did I voluntarily admit myself.
"Yes. And you?"
"No, but I'd rather not talk about it, I've been here a week already ... and it doesn't look like they are going to let me go anytime soon ... still experimenting with my meds."
"I noticed on the board outside that you're a level 4, but you don't seem suicidal."
"Oh, well give it time. I've felt pretty normal for the past day, so a catastrophic crash in the near future is inevitable. So, why don't you tell me your story, and then I'll tell you mine."
I shared with Abe all my long years of struggling with this disease. He seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying and even interjected with a question now and then.
"Sounds like everything is going good for you, besides the BPD, but that's enough to throw a monkey wrench into anyone's life. All right, I guess it's my turn."
Abe's voice got a little softer as he spoke about the chain of events that led him down this road to institutionalization. He told me about his ex-wife, her problem with alcohol, and how she was given full custody of their two little girls due to the disclosure of his illness to the court. He wasn't even allowed to see them or obtain partial custody. Abe's eyes began to water, but he didn't blink or make any attempt to fight back the tears. This engulfing cloud of sadness was nothing new to him. He also told me about his job as an industrial chemist, and how he was laid off of work four months earlier and had since been unable to land another job. Listening to Abe's story, I was suddenly ashamed for telling him about my life and all the positive things I had going for me. Abe's only blessing was that he had survived 47 years as a bipolar and that he was still alive, living out each day with extreme guilt and regret about all the precious and irreplaceable things he had lost.
"Well, now we've shared our lives so I guess you can call me your friend," Abe said on lighter note. I shook my head and looked down at the floor. At this moment someone knocked on our door. Rick stepped into the room quietly as if he expected us to be asleep.
"It's time for group," Rick said.
Abe looked up from his book and said, "I've got a headache, I think I'll sit this one out."
Rick smiled and said. "No excuses today, Abe. You don't want it to go down in your record that you're resisting treatment. Dr. Zimmerman would not be happy."
"Dr. Zimmerman can kiss my ass! Put that down on my record with a few X's and O's."
"Have it your way, but if you go, I'll take you down to the courtyard for an unscheduled smoke break," Rick offered.
"All right. I'll go to the circle jerk and share my deepest secrets with the other lunatics, as long as I don't have to sing 'Jesus Loves Me' or 'Kumbaya.' "
