Kathy Brandt - Walks on the Margins: A Story of Bipolar Illness

A Story of Bipolar Illness

Kathy Brandt

Max Maddox

Copyright 2013 by Kathy Brandt and MaxMaddox

All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978-0-9891414-0-6

Library of Congress Control Number2013905281

Cover art and design by Max Maddox

Fine chocolates and white wine, little soapsand body powders wrapped in satin yellow bows, a diamond accentedwith emeralds on a band of white gold. The Love Park fountainbursting through the city lights. A childish quartet splashing inthe baby blue, exhilarated by the coming of the hour. The air wasfor once fresh, the flags of the avenue full as sails with thewarmth of summer. Sisters of hers, brothers of mine, drifted by,the priest, the promenade.

The scene was fleeting, emptying,disappearing. She never came, and where I thought my walk hadended, it had only just begun. And so I stood. Twisting preciousgems around my little finger, to my fair lady I heeded the signs.The flier on the telephone pole, in the newspaper box, the ad onthe side of the bus. The arrangement of flowers in the storewindow, the stray cat, the draw of the cicadas pulse, the charmsthat fell from her bracelet.

Bent over like a real beggar, smelling likefungus and urine, I walked on the same blisters, only bigger.Gruesome, unnerving, crimson silver dollars on my Achilles heel,medallions on my walks over the horizon, marathons on the margins.On the fissures in the bricks of the lovesick, in the storm thatwould right everything wrong, it was for her, my paradise.

She was a promise, one that could never bemade good. But a promise so great that its very mirage crippledeven the strongest of wills. If I finally do recover, it will befrom my dying love for her; it will be from a broken heart.

But let me start from the beginning, nearly12 years ago now.

* * *

It was just before sunrise, at the electricblue hour I had come to appreciate in the week since I had given upsleeping. That early morning, George W. Bush was making one of hisfirst appearances on TV, his image forming there before me in avirtual dance across the screen. He moved as if to music only heheard, waving his effortless wave, just to my left, just to myright, squinting over here, shaking hands where they needed to beshook.

My eyes alit on parted hair, red neckties,and baby-boomer wives, while I considered this little epicycle inthe conservative political upheaval, suddenly motioning around thisone individual. So far as I was concerned, the man was alreadypresident. I had told my good friend Ana it was the best course,the course we are always on, painful as it is. The conditions for arevolution would be made.

You can hardly tell the difference between alunatic and a young Marxist, but there is one. Actually, there areat least two: eating and sleeping. Ana was concerned enough toemphasize to me their importance. I dont think she had ever beenso serious. We agreed with Karl that the dispute over the realityor non-reality of thinking that is isolated from practice is apurely scholastic question. And still, against my advice,she continued to make her way to Poli Sci class, and whatever elseshe signed up for that semester. It had become clear that if eitherof us would be going anywhere, we would not be going together.

Though Id taken some time for a littleindependent study, you still might say I had a hungry mind thatyear. I had never been so interested in reading and my retentionand focus had come together in an extraordinary way. I would havejust as soon strolled through the astrophysics aisles at thelibrary, flipping through the giant books of equations at ten pagesper second, shall we say, than fidget my way through anotherphilosophy lecture on monads.

Just a few days erstwhile, I thought to winthe Nobel Peace Prize for my work some day; it seemed perfect forwhat I was doing. But all of that had become irrelevant. I was at ahistorical crossroads of sorts, one whose effect couldnt beentirely known by the legions and arbitrators of history, includingits prize givers. Sometime in the night, I had made plans for themornings activities. I had become the king of making plans then.But this one was simple.

I took one last long pull off the pipe, putit back on the arm of the chair, and left. Three cans ofspray-paint and my moms manual Minolta in my backpack, I walkeddown the steps into a perfect morning. It was one of those daysthat feels like your birthday, like you could have anything.

The songbirds from the trees lining BroadStreet recoiled around my fixation on their asymmetric cries. Down6th Street, the bank sign flashed coded APR rates and sent out itscongratulations to the recently wedded, its witty absurditiespoignant, settling me into this riddle.

SEPTEMBER 08, 1999

55 F, 12.8 C

INTEREST RATES

RISE AGAIN

6.25%

CONGRATULATIONS

ON YOUR DAY

TED & SYLVIA

JONES!!!!

I rounded a familiar corner to the long redbrick wall outside the entrance to the local dive bar tucked inbehind Main Street. Underground and shrugging at code, thedetails of which didnt make it that far inland, it was here thatmany of us eighteen-twenty year olds regularly spent a few nights aweek guzzling pitchers of Wisconsin macro and playing violent gamesof foosball. It is in Iowa where these talents are best honed, andhidden potential is best found and lost over the course of anight.

My face was inches from the wall as theaerosol spread its colored mist, encircling my head and specklingmy face like St. Augustine on his last ascent. For the next threeand a half years, on the way to drown ourselves on a given night,my friends and I would avert our eyes from the three overlaidspellings of GOD in primary enamels as we tripped back down tothe pub for another forgettable night. If I had only writtensomething else, there would have been more to say.

But even on this morning my mouth was asthough stitched shut, and my possessions were as my chains. Watch,wallet, and keys, and shoes disposed of, I tossed the empty cans tothe asphalt of the silent alleyway, catching the eyes of anotherearly riser, unsure whether she had just witnessed a crime.

A full days spin of the earth, and the lightfell the same way it ever had. In Grinnell, Iowa, that September,the sun stretched out across two-story buildings, lapping againstthe hard green leaves, washing the wind into form. At ayellow-orange daybreak, I snapped black and whites at my reflectionin tinted office windows.

Facsimile of the inverted horizon bent in mycameras lens, I turned its focus on all of the instances ofreflection. With each snap the change in light grew more rapiduntil my face was overtaken from behind by the steep rays of thesun. The solitude of the early morning was slipping away; I grewembattled with the delay of what I had expected to be an outcome ofsorts.

Baggy-eyed pig farmers, in it for anotherday, emerged from their respective holes. Something about myappearance had caught them off-guard, and they silently encouragedme to make my way out of this town of ten thousand. Along the way,I decided to continue my summer in Bodega, California, where formonths last summer I lay with