The Council, Part I.

Most mental health resources talk about some form of support team. Initially, I heard about this in hospitals after other people's crises. I thought it was a recovery technique. In a way, I was right: I like how most books, web sites, and people I consult refer to living with mental illness as a process of recovery, whether or not one has ever attempted suicide or abused substances or had a psychotic break.

My support team is an interesting assortment of people. Of course, many people care about me, and now, many people know about my diagnoses. But five are the sort of primary caregivers. In a session with my therapist, Nancy, I jokingly referred to them as the council. I was talking about having consulted The Council before making some decision.

Actually, Nancy is on The Council. She and Dr. N, my psychiatrist, are like outside directors. They aren't directly involved, but they have important objectivity and expertise that the inside members don't have. Those outside directors certainly don't show up for all the meetings though.

The three remaining members are the people who have been in the middle of all this with me, even before we knew what it was. They're the ones who decided to like me anyway. They decided to stay with me even if I tried to push them away, hard. They know me best, and they know my illness (maybe not in general but as it is as mine). They know me intimately at various points as they time I've known them ranges from always to nine years to two years. I think that spread is an advantage.

Mom is able to see the whole stretch of my life. She knows who I have been since I was a child, a baby. She's seen my terror, my rebellion, my heartbreak, and my performances (in every sense of the word). I'm sure incorporating my diagnoses into all these memories and her nearly three-decade concept of me has been and is incredibly difficult and complex. But she knows how I got here.

Josh met me when I was twenty, working hard (to the point of figurative limb-breaking) to leave adolescence. He witnessed my best writing years. He's watched me face horrors both around me and in my own body. He's seen me earn degrees and fight for what I wanted professionally. And he's stood right next to me as I've crumbled, rallied, soared, crashed, spit sparks. He sees the range of me as an adult. I don't think he's had a chance to add bipolar disorder into that perspective, though I imagined he suspected panic disorder or something like it.

Bruce has known me for two years. He saw me deep in my career before we got close and my illness got worse. We've worked together and commuted two hours together every week day. We've shared work stress, and we've talked for hours. Though I've pumped him full of stories, he knows the current and most recent me. That's whom he sees and whom he's most likely to protect. 

They bring in these different perspectives. Though they don't communicate with each other much, they still seem to work together. Thank goodness three people can love me at such close range and with such continuous energy.