Raw Bipolar Disorder Shock to Sadness; How I Diffused a Volatile Encounter

My last visit was a revved-up reversal of tranquil.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY.

My boyfriend, Brad, needed an interim place to live after his house was sold. Dave, a former work buddy, offered him a room in his home, which happened to be in downtown “Marshall Dillonville” (I call it).

Dave lived alone with his two dogs in this charming gold rush town, owned his home, and had a spare bedroom and bathroom. A perfectly timed happenstance.

We were invited to freshen the room with a paint job before the move-in. Pumped up and fit for Sunday afternoon duty, we picked out paint, rolled out, and made the one-hour drive. 

It started as a calm and sunny day

I met Dave and he was charming, as were the dogs. After a house tour, the work began.

Taping down the windows and door frame was the initial uninteresting job. I appointed myself head masker so the men could visit. This took about an hour. Meanwhile, Brad and Dave were outside drinking beers, soon joined by two motorcycle buddies who stopped by. It was an un-amazing four dudes shootin’ the shit thing.

Taping complete, I flagged Brad inside to begin the mighty transformation. Floor tarped, rollers in hand, the Bradroom transition began. The color choice: a sweet coffee with heavy cream.

Fifteen minutes into our project Dave strolled down the hall. My periphery caught his pause in the doorway. Something wasn’t right. Within seconds, thunder.

Sweet Dave entered the bedroom screaming, “WTF?” Brad and I froze. Dave’s hands point to a small 3-inch paint puddle on the tarp. “What are you doing to my house?” He puddle points  over and over, like when you show your pet, “Lookie, come, here’s a new treat.” A vicious rant of yelling and swearing kicks off. Brad and I are still frozen silent.

Sweet Dave evaporated. A now purple-faced, screaming monster had emerged. More was coming. My brain backpedaled a few years. Uh-oh.

Recall kicked in, I recognized what was happening

No one was prepared, on this gorgeous spring day, for a kitten to turn lion. Mental illness can show its ominous side with the slightest trigger, or not. That is not to say it happens often.

In my years employed at an assisted living facility, I was no stranger to occasional bipolar phases. Bipolar disorder delivers no mercy and favors no age. Though mental health experts indicate bipolar disorder (BD) usually develops in those under age 25, it is a lifelong condition.

The Bradroom day caught me off guard. At our facility, other than a new resident move-in, the staff knew each resident’s profile. Namely, who took what meds, who was in respite, and who suffered what. This was a job performance rhythm.

Occasional combative behavior wasn’t breaking news. But it also wasn’t, “One moment, calm waters, the next, rage.” Our few BD residents were under managed care.

BD events invariably saddened the staff, but we were prepared, rarely surprised, and adjusted to occasional situations. But Bradroom day was different because:

• • I barely knew Brad 
  • I was unaware he was bipolar
  • we didn’t know what might trigger Brad’s anger
  • alcohol and more alcohol was involved

The expectation of the day’s end to be delightful vanished in seconds. How will I deal with this lovely man I barely know on the verge of rage?

“You’re ruining my house, get the F* out,” throttled in my ears. Brad coolly reasoned this was, “a little spill, the floor is protected.” Dave inched forward yelling further abusive language and the two are chest-to-chest now. Brad said nothing but his eyes exposed an agony so severe I thought his tall frame would dismantle. Vibrations filled my body.

This small room just became smaller!

It was unmistakable. Dave was having a bipolar episode. His stance was jacked, undeterred, and the small bedroom just became smaller. Yelling and threats continued as Dave threatened to call the sheriff if Brad didn’t leave. Dave’s position blocked the path to the door, though unintentional, moving toward it might appear as something unexpected. I didn’t move.

An encounter that happens lightning-fast needs a reaction just as fast. The first ingredient of that recipe is to stay calm. Safety first, safety smart. 

Can a person with bipolar disorder control their actions?

The men were so close together I could only slip my arm between them. My small 5 foot-3-inch body could not shimmy through (bad idea anyway).

Brad was still frozen, staring, inciting nothing. I found my recall. With Dave still in flames I made eye contact and whispered slowly, everything will be fine, we’re leaving now.

So I tugged at Brad’s shorts and we shuffled out of the room. Dave stepped aside but shadowed close behind, still on a rant. He wanted us out. All I wanted was out as well.