Every once in a while, you run across something that makes it easier to explain yourself. I belong to a huge support group for the loved ones of people with bipolar disorder.  I share and receive information from lots of other people who are in similar situations.  I read just about every study that gets published, and every opinion piece that I see on bipolar disorder, its treatments, its ramifications, etc., because I have learned, since my husband’s diagnosis, that some cliches (“knowledge is power” and “forewarned is forearmed” both come to mind) are borne of truth. But it was a passage from a pop novel last year that crystallized some of my own feelings about loving someone with a mental illness–a Stephen King novel, at that: Lisey’s Story.

“There’s a period of time–two weeks, maybe–when she goes on trying to believe that things are getting better. Later she’ll ask herself how she could be so stupid, so willfully blind, how she could mistake his frantic struggle to hold onto the world (and her!) for any kind of improvement, but of course when straws are all you have, you grasp them.”

“…when straws are all you have, you grasp them.”  I read that passage over and over, tears flowing, because it GOT me.  Right in the heart.  My husband, the man that I love more than my own life, is saddled with a heavy variety of the mental illness that is bipolar disorder, and like the writer character in this book, he is highly conscientious in his dealing with what is basically one of life’s “unfair” afflictions, and he does what he can to shield his loved ones from the worst of it, sometimes to his own detriment.

And what I have in common with the fictional character that is Lisey is that, in her marriage (and an additional familial relationship), she has taken up a post in what I think of in my own life as “the watchtower.” This is a position that, if you’ve never been there, can’t possibly be explained to you. Make no mistake: Between the two of us, Alex’s lot is without a doubt the more difficult. But I can’t really tell you about that, because I’m not him. What I can tell you a tiny bit about about is the “lifeguard” role, and what it means to me–and keep in mind that Alex is WONDERFUL about managing his illness. I can only imagine what it is to man the watchtower for a loved one who lacks insight into his or her own illness, as is so often the case with certain mental illnesses. But even for me, here’s just a taste of “what it means:”

It means being ever-watchful. Always. The second you’re not paying attention, that’s the very second you’re going to overlook a crucial clue to something that’s coming right at you–and it could be coming like a freight train, or like the slow drip of molasses, or at any rate in between. You are attuned to your loved one’s every mood, every action, every word, and every bit of body language. You become protective about what kind of information reaches him, and how it’s conveyed. You form a buffer-zone between him and the rest of the world, when needed, and you form his lifeline TO the rest of the world when that is called for. And you try your best to know the difference.

You walk a treacherous tightrope between beating yourself up for “jumping the gun” and interpreting something as a danger sign that really isn’t, and worse, second-guessing yourself for having MISSED something that maybe, just maybe, could have made a difference. Or maybe you saw it, and just didn’t act on it. Or most likely, you, just like him, WANT so desperately for things to be “normal” that you simply will it to be “nothing.” And I’m here to tell you, that never works.

Sometimes a “blip” is just a blip.  Just an anomaly on the radar, instead of an indicator of an actual missile headed your way.  But at what point do you call in the alarm?  For my part, I tend to be an early-alarm-puller.  The times that I’ve “let something go” and then had it blow up in my face far outnumber the times that my radar has been off, and the key to success in heading off manias, for us, is early action.  In the last three+ years (the period of time since getting a correct diagnosis and treatment plan, thanks to a GOOD psychiatrist), Alex has not suffered a single full-blown manic episode, but there have been some close, close calls.

We have a pretty good partnership arrangement worked out, and respect each other’s roles.  My part is “spotter,” and I try, as gently as possible, to spot and point out behavior patterns which have proven, in the past, to be harbingers of cycling to come.  His part is to hear me, take stock, and act upon the conclusion.  Sometimes this means he’s sitting in a psychiatrist’s office with me at his side, telling the doctor, “Well, I feel OK, but Belinda thought we’d better come in and check up on things.”

And that says more about how much he loves and trusts me than just about anything, and more than makes the watching worthwhile.