"Dear Me Diary, Dear She Diary" Brian Kelly   © Copyright 2024 by Brian Kelly

Photo by Fa Barboza on Unsplash

Hello diary, I’m sorry I’ve kept you - because I haven’t been keeping you - but even when I haven’t written I’ve spoken to you every day. Each day has seemed too short or too long. On many days it’s only you that I’ve spoken to properly, those days when no one understood me, even those who tried. Who knows when this began? But I’ll try and find a start…. to Bipolar me.

July 03, 2017: Dear Me Diary

What’s wrong with these people? I mean seriously - what the heck is wrong??

It’s 9.00 am and they’re staring at me in their dreary business suits as I wave the bid proposal that I sent them as long ago as 6.00 am. And it’s a great proposal - they would know that if they’d bothered to read it. Or maybe some have and just don't get it. Now the boss is telling me and gesturing me to slow down. Slow down? They should keep up! Now he’s looking at me, almost sympathetically.

“I’m sure it’s a good piece of work. We can review it over the next two or three days, after all the deadline’s a week away.”

“But we can file three more bids once we clear this one.”

“Maybe later,” he says, “maybe later. Now let’s have our weekly management meeting.”

I pour my seventh black coffee of the day and start a new proposal. The meeting and its weekly debates over car parking allocation and health and safety can drone on by itself. Somebody in this outfit needs to multi-task!

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

I think it’s starting again. His space on the bed lay empty and cold at 4.00 am. I could hear him opening and closing cupboards, the kettle being switched on again and again. I got up and he’s pulling open drawers in the kitchen, drawers in the study.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

(He’s breathless).

“I can’t find a pink highlighter pen,” he barks.

“But you’ve a pile of yellow, green, blue and orange ones on the table.”

“No good - it has to be pink!”

“But anyway - look at the time.”

I know! I know! Now you’re keeping me even more late.!”

. He came home late from work, apologising far too feverishly, meandering round each room of the house while gibbering frenetically about his day. But I knew even before - manic bipolar was back. He was wearing one of his pink and yellow garish shirts, with an almost matching tie. One of the “tell-tale” outfits, as I used to call them.

July 05, 2017: Dear Me Diary.

Darn - it’s 4.30 am - I’ve overslept. Still even after only two hours sleep I feel refreshed and full of energy. Life’s too short to laze in bed! And I don't even need to set the alarm on my phone any more.

(Btw diary, often with BIPOLAR….no time for punctuation or conversely no energy for it).

8.58am sendemail toalicemikeandpaul ringjaneandkevin forwardprojectxproposal toauditsubcommittee finishpowerpointpresentationfor tuesdaywaterfronthallconference swig9thcoffeeofmorning typingfasterwithonetremoringhand lightheadedbutcolourslovelycovers redsgoldsilver now 9.10 am whoisreportfor didimail who wasitomail checkmymails facebookwhatsapp wherespowerpointgone needmorecoffee

SAME DATE: Dear She Diary.

I’ve left this too late, ignored too many signs. He keeps telling me it’s fine; that work’s just hectic; that he’s pumping a bit more adrenalin than usual. But he’s far from fine. One moment he’s charming - on the phone, to the kids, to me. The next he’s so short tempered - screaming at me if I’ve moved a file, a pen - even a post-it note.

“I think we should contact the Mental Health Team.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well just for a chat - a review, a stock take?”

“I’m feeling fine, never better in fact. And even if the manic thing is back a bit, it’s not full on like before. And even if it was - I can handle it. Now stop fussing!”

July 07, 2017: Dear Me Diary.

They never tell you about the smells of a manic episode. Not the psychiatrists, the psychologists, the mental health workers - not even Dr. Google. But they’re back now. All my favourite smells over the years nesting neatly into their slots of a virtual roulette wheel, spinning randomly to throw up an individual aroma or a blend of scents. Vanilla; cloves; gasoline; new leather; wood-fired pizza; a new car interior; virgin rubber; creosote; fresh mown grass; newly baked bread; methylated spirits; Pernod or Ouzo.

I ‘m going to surprise her and the kids. It’s the weekend tomorrow, so I’ve got up early - it’s still only 3.30 am - to get them a few treats. That Groupon site has anything anyone could surely need - so I’ve bought a Spa break for all three of them and for the girls a smorgasbord of pamper treatments - eyelash extensions, massages, gel nail treatments (whatever the last one means). And I’ve got her a three-hour make-up class for over-40s - can’t wait to joke that she mightn’t be allowed in. Plus - a surprise break sorted - only ten miles from us, but on the coast - this new-fangled Airbnb thing. It’s great - far cheaper than a hotel (and the so-called medical experts asked me to watch out for spending sprees!), and it’s hosted by the owner - am sure we’ll have some lovely chats.

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

Who can I talk to? Not to the girls - they're in their early twenties and in the early days of their careers. They don’t need my stress. So, if they phone and ask I just say “He’s good. Wrapped up in his work.” Not to my mum - she just wouldn't understand - it’s not that she wouldn’t care. She’d be brilliant if he’d fallen off a ladder and had plaster casts on every limb. But Bipolar Disorder and Manic Depression just don’t resonate. She’s likely still to cry. I know she cares. His dad might understand. I often wonder if he has remained undiagnosed - and he’s now in his eighties. He has some of the same traits and foibles - the raised excitement levels, the fast speech, the fascination with office stationery - enough stock to service a small town. And the slow and low times, when he just seems to put life on hold. Our office stationery stock is now almost of large town proportions. I watched “Homeland” last week on box set catch-up and Carrie was like an identikit of all three of them. No - I’ll leave his dad be. He has his hands more than full looking after his mum 24/7 - with that hell known as Alzheimer’s. Maybe I’ll try the Mental Health Team later.

SAME DAY: Dear Me Diary.

What’s wrong with her? Anyone else would be grateful with a surprise break away? I phoned her to work and she started churning out excuses. Like she always takes her mum to the shopping mall on Saturday. And to early evening Mass. And anyway - why would we want to stay away somewhere only ten miles from home? And why would we want to stay in somebody else's house? Because it’s different – heck! - why am I having to explain the obvious to everybody these days? I call her a boring so and so! She puts the phone down. Maybe she’s having a bad day at the office. I dial Karen, the florist.

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

I had to speak to someone. Rang trying to get an appointment with the Consultant Psychiatrist to be told she’s busy for the next three months. I phone the Mental Health Team. No reply three times. Some four hours later a girl called Teresa calls me. I tell her of his behaviour, his attitude, his quirks, his short temper. She tells me she’s not a marriage counsellor. I tell her that’s not why I’ve phoned. She asks me if he’s talked about ending his life. I tell her he’s talked about nearly anything and everything - but not that. She says he doesn’t sound like a priority case. But then closes the call by reminding me they’re always there for us.

July 08, 2017: Dear Me Diary

The Airbnb place is great - really roomy - a huge kitchen, our own bathroom. And the owner is as lovely as she sounded on the phone. We drive to a larger resort three miles away. She’s insisted on driving - says it will give me a break - and she’s even booked into a nails parlour there, using one of my Groupon vouchers. We agree to meet in an hour. This place is great - it has five charity shops, each one a treasure trove. I need to be fair them to all so I tell myself to spend around twenty in each. Even if there’s nothing I need in some of them, sure it all goes to good causes.

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

The Airbnb place seems ok. He’s gone OTT with these Groupon voucher things, but I think that if I use one for my nails it will please and appease him. We had agreed to meet in an hour near the ice cream kiosk. He was seated at the side of the road next to what looked a homeless man. He was breaking a Subway in two as he spoke into the man’s ear. The guy seemed perplexed or disinterested, scooping whatever was inside the bread and gave it to his mangy dog. Scattered on the ground were what I assumed were today’s ‘finds’ in the charity shops.

“We better be going - you’re meeting your friends soon.” (I’d arranged for him to meet up for a coffee or drink with a nice couple from his home village while I took Mum to chapel as usual. “Great wee guy that,” he beamed.

“He didn’t seem to say much.”

“Ah, but he was a great listener.”

“You’re afraid of dogs.”

“Am I?”

SAME DAY: Dear Me Diary

I’d a great couple of hours with Pete and Belinda. Nothing beats the old stories of growing up, first dates in our teens, first heartbreaks. A few times Belinda asked if I was ok? I told her of course I was - but then she was always the mother hen of our old crowd. The weather is great and I decide to walk back to the Airbnb. It’s three miles by road but that would be boring. It can’t be much further along the coast. The first mile or so is easy - I just stroll along the seashore barefoot, watching families laugh and play on the sand. People become fewer and the sand starts to sink with each step I take. Unlike earlier I can’t hear any traffic noise let alone see the road. And my phone is completely out of charge. I’m disorientated now so finally I head back in the direction of the beach. It’s slow progress but I wade through the sand - then I see a notice:

“MILITARY AREA -RESTRICTED FOR TARGET PRACTICE. NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS.”

They had to be kidding. There wasn’t the slightest hint of the sound of a bomb or bullet. I must be well past halfway - I wasn’t turning back now. And in any case, hadn’t I been our college sprint champion?

I figured it must be a mile and a half around the half moon bay but maybe only a quarter of a mile across it. The water didn’t look that deep so I took my shoes off and started to wade across the bay. Water up to my knees - no problem. My waist now - no worries. Above my chest now - and I’m not even close to halfway - I’ll be fine but my phone mightn’t be. Reluctantly I trudge back to dry land wetter than I’d thought. It’s early evening now - she’ll be worrying. I’ve well over a mile to go and still there’s nobody about. After about ten minutes I see a girl walking her dog. As I reach her I see she’s around thirteen. I asked her if I can borrow her phone, that I’ll pay her to use it. I feel like some old creep. I tell her that she can dial the number and hold the phone while I speak. She shrugs what seems a yes. Sugar! The only number I know is my Dad’s landline - we don’t need to memorise these days, do we? Dad has to tell me to talk slowly, to describe where I am. I tell him to phone her straightaway.

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

Where in heaven is he? I’ve driven up and down this road umpteen times since there was no sign of him at the Airbnb. I’d phoned Belinda and she said he'd muttered something about walking back - but I can’t see him anywhere. My phone rings - at last! But it’s his Dad - saying something about a bridge near where we were staying. I forget the speed limits and race to the bridge. What the heck? He’s literally dripping with water but waving and smiling like an idiot. We check out of the Airbnb place and once home I almost have to push him into the shower. While he’s there I ring the Out of Hours Mental Health Team. It’s 9 pm. I get Jimmy whom I’ve met before. I describe the day.

“Has he talked about ending his life.”

“No.”

“Does his mood seem low?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Has he said what he’d like to do for the rest of the evening?”

“He talked about going to the bar for an hour to meet his mates.”

“That sounds good - should keep him calm.”

“Seriously?”

SAME DAY: Dear Me Diary.

Enjoyed the drinks and laughs with the guys. A good end to the day. We’re only back in the house when she asks - “How many beers had you?”

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary.

I only asked how many beers he’d had and he erupted, throwing plates around the kitchen, calling me an interfering busybody, a controlling cow. Then he ran into the bathroom in our bedroom, still shouting and screaming, and locked the door. At first, I thought it best to leave him alone, that he would calm down. But five, ten, minutes passed. I asked him to come out and talk. But he snarled and swore again. After ten minutes more, I knocked on the door again. This time only silence - but after a while I heard him sobbing, then howling like a wounded animal. I couldn’t get any words from him. Just then my landline rang, but before I could answer it my mobile rang as well.

SAME DAY: Dear Me Diary.

I want to stay here forever. I know I’m a mess now. That I’ve treated her like rubbish. I phone my cousin to ring her on the landline to check she’s ok and to come and help us. I ring her best friend and tell her to ring on the cellphone and to do likewise.

July 10, 2017: Dear She Diary.

I couldn’t do a diary entry for yesterday - just exhausted. It took three hours for all of us to persuade him to come out of the bathroom. But there were no cuts, no scars, just a few bumps where he had been banging his head against the wall repeatedly. And now we’ve managed an emergency appointment with the Psychiatrist. He’s so affable, so plausible, complying with all she says. I’ve been at him to stop driving and my “nonsense” becomes her “of course.” She says she’s upping his medication. When I remind him to take his tablets he sometimes tells me he’s not a child yet he smiles at her as if she’s spoiling him with extra presents like a child on Christmas Eve. At times it’s as if he’s flirting with her almost, or at least enjoying the company of a professional.

SAME DAY: Dear Me Diary.

That went fine. No lectures, no talk of inpatient admission. All she wanted to talk about was tablets - more of the same and some new ones. Mood stabilisers she calls them - more like mood numbing menaces. Anyway, why don't these psychiatrists have couches, like in the movies and on television? She talks about the side effects. Weight gain. Dry mouth. Tremors. Constipation or diarrhoea - make your mind up! Oh, and she’s referred me to a Clinical Psychologist for CBT - Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Maybe he’ll have a couch.

July 28, 2017: Dear She Diary

It’s been a relatively quiet few weeks. He’s still bouncy and fidgety. And still working when I’m not watching - even though the doctors have put him on sick leave. But the house is a mess. He has newspapers and books lying open in every room. Different music playing in most rooms. But he’s taking the tablets, despite weighing himself three times a day “just in case.” I’m clearing up when I find yet another piece of paper with his frenetic scribbles on it. I don’t know what makes me read it - it’s a poem he’s written…

My Pill Box

My pill box,

my consort,

morning, noon and night.

In the swinging ‘60s its tenants

would have uppers and downers as their monikers,

and vivid colours as their shell.

My pill box,

filling up like a pregnancy

with its own fear and uncertainty

of what may happen next.

My pill box,

even fuller still,

plumped up

to dumb down

manic bipolar me.

My pill box,

no fuller,

but reshuffled and recoloured,

to find a pulse

within the now depressive me.

My pill box,

bursting from my screams,

but muffling

the bipolar sad extremes.

My mood suppressed

but not distressed.

My pill box……

is family.

SAME DAY: Dear She Diary:

Hmm. We’ll see, we’ll see….

I have been fortunate to have a few pieces published for the first time, with both prose and poetry submissions accepted in the UK, USA and Australia. Details are as follows: -

‘The Window Visit’ (poem); Covid Anthology, UK. 
‘No One Will Notice’ (short story): Anthology, Living Springs Publishers, Colorado, USA.
‘Downpatrick Café, 8.00 am (poem): Anthology, Oberon Poetry, New York, USA.
‘Digger Down’/’No Bargaining’/’Last Legs’ (poems), Letter Review Magazine, Sydney, Australia.