Miraculously, our offer was accepted, and for the first time in months, I breathed. I did everything possible, short of lighting a candle and praying to Xenu. Our real estate agent told us we were up against eight other buyers. We put in the prerequisite above-asking-price offer and spent a sleepless night waiting for a response. Either that, or he was just tired of going to open houses. It was also the first house that Alex and I agreed upon. As someone who loves midcentury architecture, this beauty made me weak in the knees. We were craving outdoor space, and this house had an expansive deck and a vast lawn. A 1965 deck house straight out of The Brady Bunch. I don’t believe in love at first sight - unless it involves cats - but this house, located in the wilds of Metrowest, was perfect. We were like one of those couples you see bickering on House Hunters and wonder why they’re still married. I wanted something older, with character. He wanted something freshly renovated and turnkey. Even worse, Alex and I butted heads over every house we looked at. Homes were getting snapped up in days for well over the asking price. We arrived at open houses with long lines. Unfortunately, my solution was the same one everyone and their Aunt Sadie had that year. You can roll your eyes, but I was getting desperate. I knew, or at least hoped, that more room to breathe would improve my deteriorating mental health. We’d move to a bigger place with more outdoor space. Thankfully I had a solution! I’d do what I assume any reasonable person facing mortal and financial peril would: buy a house. Now, weave all those story lines - anxious, grounded travel writer with bipolar disorder who is terrified about the well-being of his spouse while feeling squeezed in a shoebox condo in Southie - and you have an understanding of my 2020 psychiatric tire fire. Thankfully, I’ve become skilled at recognizing how my brain works and honed my skills to sense when I’m experiencing a severe episode. Psychiatric medications are helpful, but they’re not a panacea, and they’re not perfect, as evidenced by the introductory paragraph of this story. It was the same among my friends, except one who said, “Yeah, I figured that out awhile ago.” I was hauling around a heavy backpack full of shame for no good reason. My brain disorder is acting up again.” But when I finally needed to tell her during an extreme hypomanic episode, she reacted with caring and understanding. I didn’t feel as if I could call my boss and say, “I can’t come to work today. While Zeta-Jones was comfortable telling the world about her diagnosis, I was not. I take medication that allows me to be an almost fully functioning member of society, but it’s still a struggle. I used to say that bipolar II was not as severe as bipolar I, but I’m recanting that assessment. I often refer to it as Catherine Zeta-Jones Disease because, the week I was diagnosed, the actress appeared on the cover of People magazine alongside the headline “ Battling bipolar disease: Inside her private struggle.” Bipolar II is similar to bipolar disorder, except the periods of depression tend to be more pervasive, and the hypomanic episodes are not as frequent or pronounced. Story line 3 (this one will explain a lot): About a decade ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. But I was convinced he would end up dying of COVID, leaving me a heartbroken, unemployed widower, living out my dying days eating freeze-dried meals with my cat. There was no way I could talk him out of it because he’s the kind of dedicated doctor who goes above and beyond. Story line 2: My husband, Alex, is a physician and went to work every day throughout the pandemic. Yes, I wrote a story where I taste-tested freeze-dried meals with my cat. I could write only so many articles about eating freeze-dried meals with my cat. No newspaper needs a travel writer when the world is stuck in lockdown. In reality, I was going stir-crazy in a tiny condo while counting the days to my inevitable layoff. Instead of answering honestly, I politely poo-pooed the question with a blend of pleasantries and poppycock, such as “It’s a nice break from being on the road,” or “I finally have time to watch every season of Murder She Wrote, again.” What I wanted to say was, “What do you think it’s like? Of course it’s awful.” I was sad, scared, and anxious. Story line 1: I’d endured three months of people asking, “What’s it like to be a travel writer during a pandemic? That must be awful.” How about this: For ease of storytelling, I’m going to break the tale into three convenient story lines. It’s impossible to point to just one incident that drove me to the moment when I unraveled on the itchy wool carpet.
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