by Terri Cheney
the dark side
of innocence
Also by Terri Cheney
Manic: A Memoir
ATRIA BOOKS
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
To the best of my ability, I have re-created events, locales, people, and
organizations from my memories of them. In order to maintain the anonymity
of others, in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and
places, and the details of events. I have also changed some identifying
characteristics, such as physical descriptions, occupations, and places of
residence.
Copyright © 2011 by Terri Cheney
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information,
address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Atria Books hardcover edition March 2011
ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your
live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the
Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our
website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4391-7621-4
ISBN 978-1-4391-7625-2 (ebook)
To my mother
the dark side
of innocence
Introduction
There’s a beast out there, and it’s preying on children. I didn’t know this when I was growing up. I only knew that there was something very, very wrong with me. It wasn’t until 1994, when I was thirty-four years old, that I finally found the right name for it: bipolar disorder.
After years of secretly struggling with the disease, I wrote a book about my experience. Manic: A Memoir was published in 2008. It describes my life as a Beverly Hills entertainment attorney—outwardly successful, representing the likes of Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones, and major motion picture studios. But behind the carefully poised façade was a string of bloody suicide attempts, nights in jail, repeated hospitalizations, and ruined relationships. When I was depressed, I was completely paralyzed, literally hiding out under my desk. But when I was manic, I made up for the lost time with dazzling productivity, charisma, and boundless energy.
I told no one about my illness back then—not my friends, my family, my coworkers; no one except my doctors. With the publication of Manic, of course, the whole world was going to be privy to my secret. I rationalized this by telling myself that no one was really going to care. Who could possibly be interested in my messy, chaotic blur of a life?
I was wrong.
To my everlasting surprise, Manic hit the New York Times best-seller list a month after its release. As of this writing, it is in its tenth printing, has been translated into eight foreign languages, and was even optioned by HBO for a television series, the ultimate stamp of pop culture approval. Don’t misunderstand me: I love my book, I think it’s a very good book, and I worked seven long years on it. But I also know that its success has little to do with my writing. The time has finally come for awareness: the world seems to have a rampant curiosity about bipolar disorder. Almost without exception, everyone I’ve talked to either knows or knows of someone with this disease (or has it themselves).
I was completely unprepared for the torrent of emails I received: the outpouring of gratitude, the baring of souls. But what moved me the most, what I kept coming back to over and over again, were the emails from parents of bipolar children. They were heartrending, passionate, and unapologetically hungry for information. Why were their children acting like this? Did I understand the symptoms? Did I know of a cure? The love was palpable, as was the desperation.
In many of these emails, and in the numerous interviews, readings, and lectures I’ve given since, the same question kept popping up, without fail: How old was I when I realized that something was seriously wrong with me? I remember the first time I answered this question. It was during a live radio show, and I was nervous. My mind flashed immediately to a prolonged bout of depression I suffered when I was sixteen years old. “Sixteen,” I quickly replied. New authors get a little glib with repetition, and “sixteen” soon became my stock answer. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t right. My early childhood wasn’t just a strange one; it was a sick one, and there was more to the story than I was willing to tell.
Then in May of ’08, shortly after my book came out, I visited New York City for a reading. I was in a downtown subway station when I spotted a bright red Newsweek banner and, in bold type, the cover story: “Growing Up Bipolar.” I devoured that article. I was shocked to learn that at least eight hundred thousand children in the United States have been diagnosed as bipolar. (I’ve since seen estimates of over a million.) I would later learn from a New York Times Magazine cover article that there has been a fortyfold increase in the diagnosis in recent years—a whopping 4,000 percent increase since the mid-1990s, according to National Public Radio.
The very next day, I was sitting in my editor’s office, discussing what to write next. My editor looks like a Pre-Raphaelite angel, which is disconcerting enough. But then out of the blue, just like that, she said, “What about your childhood?”
I froze. “What about it?”
“Lots of people seem curious. You don’t mention it much in Manic, you know.”
There’s a very good reason for that: I wanted people to buy the book. Difficult as it was for me to imagine anyone caring about the exploits of my bipolar adulthood, I found it even harder to conceive of anyone being interested in my morass of a childhood. At least when I was an adult, I had a name for what was wrong with me: manic depression. It’s easier to make sense of things—even very disturbing things like sexual acting out and suicidality—when there’s a big, fat label slapped on top. But as a child, I knew nothing. I had no diagnosis. All I had was a vague and gnawing awareness that I was different from other children, and that different was not good. Different must be kept hidden.
“I don’t think I can remember back that far,” I said, glancing away from Sarah’s eyes to the concrete block of a building across the way.
It was part evasion, part truth. Memory has always been a tricky business with me, especially since the twelve rounds of electroshock therapy I went through in 1994. I write what I remember as honestly and accurately as I can. But I’m never quite sure that what I remember is what other people see as “true.” Mental illness has its own lens.
“That’s exactly what you said about Manic, and yet you managed.” Sarah paused, and the silence drew me back in to her. “I think you should try.”
I left her office that afternoon convinced that I would send a polite but discouraging email in a couple of days. But she got me thinking, which is what a good editor is supposed to do. And thinking. And eventually, jotting down glimpses of the past. I pored over what mementos I still have of my childhood: some photos, early writings, a cherished keepsake or two. I plagued my mother and brother with questions (my father, unfortunately, died in 1997): Did this really happen? Did I really do that? Fragments gradually became paragraphs, images evolved into scenes. Once I started to remember, windows that I thought were welded shut flew open. I may not have recalled the exact dialogue spoken at the dinner table, but I couldn’
t forget the feelings. I was seven years old all over again, and frankly, it was terrifying.
Childhood bipolar disorder is a lot like adult bipolar disorder in that it’s a never-ending battle of cycling moods: up, down, in between, and all across the emotional spectrum. Mania brings euphoria, agitation, grandiosity, recklessness. You feel invulnerable, ecstatic, as if you could move the world without a lever. And yet, surprisingly, mania is not that much fun. Your senses are too acute; other people think and move too slowly for your pleasure. You blithely bulldoze over them in search of the next sensation.
Depression is more familiar to most people. It’s not just the blues, it’s so much worse: a bleakness beyond reason. There is no light, there is no hope, there is only this moment of inarticulate despair that you know at your core will last forever. When I’m depressed, I simply can’t move. It’s an effort to blink, to breathe, even to cry. The only thing that really soothes me, strangely enough, is suicidal ideation.
There are other mood states in between mania and depression: hypomania, for example, which is that glorious period that sometimes precedes mania. You’re charming, creative, and energetic, without mania’s impaired judgment. You seem to cast a magic spell wherever you go: other people are drawn to you, and you’re absolutely fascinated by everything and anything they have to say. It’s the best part of being bipolar.
But there’s also the bizarre “mixed state,” where the worst of depression and mania collide. You feel utterly despondent but possessed by a tremendous, surging energy. I know I’m in a mixed state when all I want to do is shatter glass. Not surprisingly, it’s the state in which the most suicides occur.
If this sounds overwhelming, it is. But so much more is known about adult bipolar disorder than about its incarnation in childhood. From what I’ve discovered in my research, there are significant differences. In adulthood, over the course of years, and with the luxury of perspective, patterns eventually emerge. In my case, for example, I’ve learned that now I will usually experience three days of mania followed by four days of depression, and varying periods of relative normalcy in between. This is what’s known as “rapid cycling,” and it’s unusual because the majority of people spend weeks or months in a particular mood state before switching to another.
In children, however, moods often fluctuate like humming birds’ wings. One minute they’re up, the next they’re down, and there seems to be no clear delineation between the two phases. Rapid cycling is far more common in children than in adults, and of course, it’s much more difficult to treat: like chasing a comet’s tail. Mixed states are also more common in children, which wrings my heart because they are so agonizing.
And there seems to be a qualitative difference in the experience of mania: agitation, irritability, and anger are more pronounced in childhood mania than the classic adult euphoria. But many manic traits, unfortunately, remain the same. For example, many parents report that their bipolar children are strangely hypersexual. They exhibit an awareness of and preoccupation with sex that belies their essential innocence. This was certainly true in my case.
I can hear the skeptical reader now: children are naturally moody. Teenagers are even worse. Given the inherent volatility of childhood and the volcanic eruptions of adolescence, how can you tell when it’s bipolar disorder? It’s a very good question. Early-onset bipolar disorder is notoriously difficult to diagnose, even by the most seasoned professionals. It mimics many other conditions, like attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), oppositional defiant disorder, or plain old unipolar depression.
While it’s extremely hard to discern a pattern of cycling moods in what looks and feels like chaos, it’s clear that parents and doctors must at least be cognizant of the possibility of bipolar disorder—if only to rule it out. Treatment for other conditions (stimulants and antidepressants, for example) may seriously exacerbate bipolar symptoms.
I don’t intend this book to be a primer on early-onset bipolar disorder, nor do I profess to be an expert on the disease. I can’t tell you if your child is bipolar. I can only offer my own experience. Looking back at my childhood and comparing it with the madness I wrote about in Manic, it seems clear to me that the seeds of insanity were already planted at a very early age. But how much of this book is about growing up bipolar, and how much is just about growing up? I can’t answer this question. I don’t think anyone can.
So I’m putting my story down for all the parents who have asked me, so plaintively, “What was your own childhood like?” Maybe there will be clues in here; maybe even some answers. I suspect that at most there may be recognition, and I hope that will translate to this knowledge: if you are the parent of a bipolar child or if you are bipolar yourself, you are not alone.
Terri Cheney
Los Angeles, California
1
A little boy died
When he was seven.
He went straight up
To Heaven.
—My version of a nursery rhyme, age seven
Killing yourself at any age is a seriously tricky business. But when I was seven, the odds felt insurmountable. My resources were so limited, after all. We lived in a one-story house, so there was nowhere to jump. The cabinet where the good silver was kept—the one with the knives that could make a nice, clean slice—was locked, and my mother had the key. We did have a swimming pool in our backyard, but who was going to teach me how to drown? I’d only just learned how to dog paddle.
It all started two nights before my seventh birthday, after a fight with my brother, Zach. I was a delicate-looking thing, pale as porcelain, with long red hair that flowed down to the middle of my back. Zach was ten, and big for his age. I didn’t care.
“You’re sitting in my chair,” I said.
Zach didn’t stop eating. “So?” he mumbled.
“Move.”
“You move.”
I could hear my voice growing shrill. “Move.”
“No, you move.”
My mother intervened. “Honey, let Zach sit next to his dad for a change. You come sit next to me.” She patted the empty chair to her right.
Except for fancy occasions like Thanksgiving, we always had our meals at the L-shaped kitchen counter. My father would sit at the head; I’d sit next to him; then my mother; then Zach. I don’t know who had assigned these places, but that was how it had always been.
I felt my hand tighten into a fist. I could just go back to my room. I wasn’t that hungry anyway. But something deep inside me kept me standing there, transfixed. That something was so familiar, so real and omnipotent, I’d given it a name: the Black Beast.
I tried to negotiate.
“Not now,” I argued.
“Now,” the Black Beast insisted.
My fingers clenched tighter, so hard that my nails gouged into my palms.
Daddy hadn’t come home from work yet, so his chair was empty. There was still time to fix this, if indeed it needed fixing. You could never tell with Zach. Of everyone in my family, I felt that he was the only one really keeping track of things. At ten, he could already see straight through me. He knew I was not adorable.
I gave him fair warning. “Zach, I swear, if you don’t move now, you’re gonna be sorry.”
He ignored me and reached for a tortilla chip, his hand passing right in front of me. Big mistake.
I grabbed the nearest fork and stabbed, hard, into his flesh. There was a moment’s bloody satisfaction, like when you bite into a good, rare piece of steak and the juices flood through your mouth. The fork stood up straight from the back of Zach’s hand. I’d skewered him like a bullfighter.
My mother swore and ran to get the first aid kit while Zach screamed. Thank God she was a registered nurse and knew exactly what to do. I don’t remember much of what followed—just that I was sent to my room, where I waited in terror for my father to come home.
It was the night of December 5, 1966. It was a good time to live in suburban Southern California. Building w
as booming, but you could still drive a mile or two out of town and picnic in orange groves. The smog was bad, but it produced brilliant sunsets. Out in the real world—the grown-up world I only caught whiffs of now and then—trouble was brewing: in four years, words like “Kent State” and “Cambodia” would enter the national consciousness. The Beatles would break up, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix would die.
But in Ontario, the little corner of the world where I lived, some forty-odd miles east of LA, none of that seemed to matter. Euclid Avenue, the eucalyptus-lined main street of town, was named one of the seven most beautiful avenues in the United States, and a good Sunday still consisted of church and a stroll beneath the trees. No one knew then that a blight was about to kill them all off, one after the other. In 1966, all was green and thriving.
Things weren’t exactly perfect at 1555 North Elm Court, but you couldn’t tell from the outside. The garage was freshly painted, the pink geraniums my mother had planted on a whim were blooming, and a brand-new fire-engine red Dodge Comet stood in the driveway, waiting for us to hop in. But come around midnight, and you might hear a different story: voices brittle as icicles, aiming for the heart. I could hear them through my bedroom door, although I couldn’t quite make out the words. Something about money, usually; and sometimes, when the frost was particularly thick, the single word Rebecca. On those nights, I fully expected to wake up and find all the pink geraniums withered and dead. But to my surprise, they continued to bloom, and the neighbors looked on us as a fine family.
And so we were. Zach was tall for his age and strapping, with a shock of red hair even more vibrant than my own. My mother and father were both handsome people, trim and photogenic. In the few pictures I possess of us, we look like a Kodak commercial: smiling, smiling, smiling. I remember hating being photographed as a child, and perhaps that accounts for my awkward grin. But even I could look angelic when I chose.
“There’s something wrong with her.”