Cheney - Manic: a memoir

I didnt tell anyone that I wasgoing to Santa

I was a star in the makingcoldand chilly, with

I was sitting in the head and necksurgeons sleek

I have never sinned on purpose. Notthat it mattered

I knew I was getting a little bitmanic when

The room was a cheery one, asinstitutions go: daisies

We were the Gatsby couple, or so ourfriends called

Its a little-known secret, andit should probably stay that

I woke up strapped to a bed, coveredin a

I met the doctor of my dreams at myfathers

I hadnt planned on being manic.For months, Id looked

Ive never liked the telephone.Its a noisy, shrill intruder.

My sins are greatest against those Inever wished to

Id never hit a man before. Iwas surprised how

Its impossible, in my opinion,to have a normal relationship

I look harmless enough, I suppose.Sitting here on this

A lady doesntscratch, my mother used to warn me,

The valet sprang into action thesecond my car pulled

Im sitting in my favoritecaf, writing a line, crossing

If you come with me on this journey, Ithink a word of warning is in order: manic depression is nota safe ride. It doesnt go from point A to point B in afamiliar, friendly pattern. Its chaotic, unpredictable. Younever know where youre heading next. I wanted this book tomirror the disease, to give the reader a visceral experience.Thats why Ive chosen to tell my life storyepisodically, rather than in any chronological order. Itstruer to the way I think. When I look back, I rarely rememberevents in terms of date or sequence. Rather, I remember whatemotional state I was in. Manic? Depressed? Suicidal? Euphoric?Life for me is defined not by time, but by mood.

Ive tried to stay as true as I can to what Iremember. But mental illness creates its own vibrant reality, whichis so convincing its sometimes hard to figure out exactlywhat is real and what is not. It gets even harder as time goes by,because memory is the first casualty of manic depression. WhenIm manic, all I remember is the moment. When Imdepressed, all I remember is the pain. The surrounding details arelost on me.

But the illness, ironically, has impaired me farless than the treatment. Ive long since lost track of allthe psychotropic medications Ive had to take over the years,or the nature and number of their side effects. More devastating,however, was the course of electroshock therapy (ECT) I wentthrough in 1994. ECT can be of great help as a last-resorttreatment, but its notorious for wiping out memory. For awhile, I forgot even the simplest things: what part of town I livedin, my mothers maiden name, what scissors were for. Some ofthis was eventually restored, but I still have trouble recallingpast events and retaining the memories of new ones. The world hasnever seemed as sharp and clear as it did before the ECT.

In some cases, the events I describe can bedocumented by police or hospital records (although some of thehospitals no longer exist). Ive elected to change the namesof most of the people and institutions depicted, to protect theiridentities. The experiences Ive written about are oftendifficult and private, and I prefer just to tell my own story.

Telling my story is whats kept me alive,even when death was at its most seductive. Thats whyIve chosen to share my personal history, although some of itis still painful to recall eventhrough a haze of medication, mental illness, and electroshocktherapy. But the disease thrives on shame, and shame thrives onsilence, and Ive been silent long enough. This bookrepresents what I remember. This book is my truth.

Terri Cheney
Los Angeles, California

I didnt tell anyone that I wasgoing to Santa Fe to kill myself. I figured that was moreinformation than people needed, plus it might interfere with mytravel plans if anyone found out the truth. People always meanwell, but they dont understand that when youreseriously depressed, suicidal ideation can be the only thing thatkeeps you alive. Just knowing theres an outeven ifits bloody, even if its permanentmakes thepain almost bearable for one more day.

Five months had passed since my fathersdeath from lung cancer, and the world was not a fit place to livein. As long as Daddy was still alive, it made sense to get up everymorning, depressed or not. There was a war on. But the day I gavethe order to titrate his morphineto a lethal dose, the fight lost all meaning for me.

So I wanted to die. I saw nothing odd about thisdesire, even though I was only thirty-eight years old. It seemedlike a perfectly natural response, under the circumstances. I wasbone-tired, terminally weary, and death sounded like a vacation tome, a holiday. A somewhere else, which is all I really wanted.

When I was offered the chance to leave L.A. to takean extended trip by myself to Santa Fe, I was ecstatic. I leased acharming little hacienda just off Canyon Road, the artsiest part oftown, bursting with galleries, jazz clubs, and eccentric,cat-ridden bookstore/cafs. It was a good place to live,especially in December, when the snow fell thick and deep on thecobblestones, muffling the street noise so thoroughly that the cityseemed to dance its own soft-shoe.

There was an exceptional amount of snowfall thatparticular December. Everything seemed a study in contrast: thefierce round desert sun, blazing while I shivered; blue-white snowshadows against thick red adobe walls; and always, everywhere Ilooked, the sagging spine of the old city pressing up against thesleek curves of the new. But the most striking contrast by far wasme: thrilled to tears simply to be alive in such surroundings, anddetermined as ever to die.

I never felt so bipolar in my life.

The mania came at me in four-dayspurts. Four days of not eating, not sleeping, barely sitting inone place for more than a fewminutes at a time. Four days of constant shoppingand CanyonRoad is all about commerce, however artsy its facade. And four daysof indiscriminate, nonstop talking: first to everyone I knew on theWest Coast, then to anyone still awake on the East Coast, then toSanta Fe itself, whoever would listen. The truth was, Ididnt just need to talk. I was afraid to be alone. Therewere things hovering in the air around me that didnt want tobe remembered: the expression on my fathers face when I toldhim it was stage IV cancer, already metastasized; the bewilderedlook in his eyes when I couldnt take away the pain; and theway those eyes kept watching me at the end, trailing my every move,fixed on me, begging for the comfort I wasnt able to give. Inever thought I could be haunted by anything so familiar, sobeloved, as my fathers eyes.

Mostly, however, I talked to men. Canyon Road has anumber of extremely lively, extremely friendly bars and clubs, allof which were within walking distance of my hacienda. Itwasnt hard for a redhead with a ready smile and a feverishglow in her eyes to strike up a conversation and then continue thatconversation well into the early-morning hours, at his place ormine. The only word I couldnt seem to say wasno. I ease my conscience by reminding myself thatmanic sex isnt really intercourse. Its discourse,just another way to ease the insatiable need for contact andcommunication. In place of words, I simply spoke with my skin.

I had long since decided that Christmas Eve wouldbe my last day on this earth. I chose Christmas Eve preciselybecause it had meaning and beautynowhere more so than inSanta Fe, with its enchantingfestival of the farolitos . EveryChristmas Eve, carolers come from all over the world to stroll thelantern-lit streets until dawn. All doors are open to them, and theair is pungent with the smell of warm cider and pion.