Crazy Mother, Crazy Son

An essay about bipolar disorder

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My mother was bipolar, undiagnosed. Or rather, I inexpertly believe that she was bipolar based on what I've learned about my own bipolar disorder—now that I'm properly diagnosed, medicated, and cognitively therapized after a lifetime of struggle. I also need to admit that I much prefer “manic-depression,” the old name for bipolar, even though manic-depression calls to mind 1940s film noir footage of insane asylums. I think manic-depression more accurately describes the careening nature of bipolar disorder—from the reckless and self-destructive manias to the debilitation and suicidal ideation of depression.

Of course, there are many things about my bipolar disorder that I don't understand or have a difficult time accepting. I can sometimes be aware that I'm in mania or depression but be unable to stop myself from engaging in manic and depressive behavior. My decision-making ability can be severely compromised. During a long manic period in 2016, I purchased thousands of dollars worth of emergency food because I believed the world was ending. I also purchased a bulletproof vest that could stop almost any bullet. My bulletproof vest was just as good as the armor worn by soldiers and cops. Some of you might think my behavior was justified based on the threat and eventual reality of a Trump Presidency. But for those of you who would justify my paranoia, I need to ask a few questions: Did you buy a one-year supply worth of emergency food for your family of five? Did you buy a bulletproof vest that you could wear into armed combat? Are you going to buy that food and vest based on the 50/50 chance that Trump is reelected in 2024?

In any case, this essay is not just about my mental disorder. It's also about my mother and how often I didn't understand her behavior when I was young.

Why did she stay awake for days while sewing together multiple quilts? Why did she sleep on the living room couch for days while she mourned the death of Elvis?

I've written about my mother and her unpredictability in my memoir You Don't Have to Say You Love Me but I have a new story to tell you.

This last weekend, I watched a highlight of Chris Pratt's guest appearance on The Graham Norton Show where he discussed a job he had in his youth in Denver, Colorado. Watch the video and you’ll see that it’s pretty hilarious, right?

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This video reminded me of my summer job as a telemarketer for a shady-ass company that had us pitching a product and/or service that I only partially recall. I think it might have been second-class time shares on unfamous islands. But I'm not sure. I had that job 35 years old. It's easy to forget the details. I can only remember for sure that a script was taped on the wall in my cubicle that I was supposed to follow during my sales calls. And I do remember that the general directive was to upsell, upsell, upsell! Instead of one weekend in the time share, how about a full week? How does that sound? Instead of one week per year, how about one week twice a year? Or four weeks four times a year? How about you and your family and friends share eight separate weeks during the year? You can mix and match who gets to travel. Your grandparents on one trip and your bowling team on another journey. That's right. These time shares are not vacations. They're for journeys. Adventures. Life-changing vision quests.

I'm certain those words weren't the exact script I followed but it feels tonally accurate.

And I need to add that my cubicle was a flimsy one set among twenty or thirty others in a rented meeting room in a downtown hotel in Spokane. I think it was a Sheraton back then and it's a DoubleTree now. So, yeah, I was hired for a telemarketing company that didn't even have its own office.

Scam, scam, scam, enit?

During my first morning on the job, my mother called the telemarketing company. But she didn't call them directly. The company didn't have a public number. So my mother called the front desk and they sent a bellhop to find me and let me know that she had called.

My boss was not happy. I thought it might be an emergency. But he wouldn't let me use any phones in that meeting room. Instead, I had to walk to the end of the hallway and use one of the hotel phones sitting on a table near the elevators. The hotel had my mother on hold.

"Mom, what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, I was just checking in on you."

"Mom, I've been here an hour. It's a new job. You can't be calling me."

"Well, I was just calling to congratulate you. I'm sorry that I'm proud of you for getting a job for the hotel."

"Mom, I'm not working for the hotel. I'm working in the hotel. And I gotta get back there.”

"Fine," my mother said and hung up on me.

I returned to my cubicle and called the phone numbers on my list. I don't have any idea how we obtained those phone numbers and names. But I do know they were cold calls. Most of the people didn't know how we obtained their phone number, either.

"Who is this? How did you get this number? Who are you? Never call me again."

I was a terrible telemarketer. I gave up too easily. All around me, other young people were making sales. They celebrated. I was demoralized. I asked the boss for advice. He kept saying, "Just follow the script. Keep following the script. It works."

I failed and failed and failed. And then, right before lunch, the bellhop appeared and said my mother was calling me again.

The boss was pissed.

"Okay," he said. "You can take this call. But not another one."

Once again, I used the phone by the elevators. The hotel had my mother on hold one more time.

"Mom, you can't call me."

"Well, I'm sorry," she said. "I just wanted to see if I could take you to lunch."

"Are you in Spokane?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I'm at home."

She lived in our family home in Wellpinit on the Spokane Indian Reservation. It was approximately 44 miles away from the hotel.

"Mom," I said. "It's almost my lunch break and I only get 15 minutes anyway."

"Fine," she said. "I'm just a proud mother who wanted to celebrate her son. I'm sorry I care so much. And I am in Spokane. Grocery shopping and second-hand going. I was testing you.”

"Testing me for what? For how often I hear you lying?"

She hung up on me again. That was my mother. She lied to get attention. She lied to manipulate. She lied to impress people. She lied for no damn good reason at all. And maybe you're thinking that my mother was just being an asshole rather than being a flawed human at the mercy of bipolar disorder. But I recognize now that she lied in cycles. Instead of staying awake for days to sew quilts, she stayed awake for days to construct elaborate fantasies. She'd talk incessantly while lying. She'd think up crazy ideas to make money—a taco stand on the reservation, a permanent powwow where Indians could dance like it was a theatre. She'd pace for hours in the Assembly of God Church on the rez. She'd sing, speak in tongues, roll on the carpet, and lie to the pastor and his wife about which of her children had a terminal illness. She'd spend all our money. Instead of food, she'd buy one hundred pounds of quilting material. Or ten velvet paintings of Indian warriors and princesses to hang on our walls. She once bought a few dozen Bibles and gave them to tribal members who needed to be saved. She'd gain or lose thirty pounds in a month. And, two or three times, she left our house for days. There were rumors of other men. I used to wonder if my father was not my biological father. But I don't believe that now as my sisters and I increasingly resemble one another as we age. My mother was compulsive, impulsive, and reckless. But, once again, I need to tell you that her bad behavior—her worst behavior—happened in unpredictable cycles. Using the terminology that I've learned, I would say that my mother was beset by bipolar mood episodes and that she was more often manic than she was depressed.

And, yes, I did take a 15-minute lunch break from that shitty telemarketing job. I only had a few dollars so I bought a candy bar and a soda from the hotel's vending machines.

Then, maybe an hour after lunch, my mother called again. The bellhop walked in the meeting room and looked at me. And then my boss said, "You're fired. Get out of here."

I walked back to the one-bedroom apartment that I shared with my sisters. They're twins. They shared the one bed. And I slept on the living room couch.

The next day, I saw a newspaper ad for a pizza delivery job. I applied in-person. They hired me immediately. I liked my fellow employees. I had a crush on one of the young women who rolled the dough. I think the guy who worked the phones had a crush on me. I regularly delivered calzones to a prostitute while she worked a corner on Sprague Avenue. She tipped ten bucks every time. And I never had to make a sales call because nobody ever has had to convince a stranger to buy a pizza.

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