An Unquiet Mind - Kay Redfield Jamison [63]
It was a sobering thought, and one that cut both ways. My moods still shifted often and precipitously enough to afford me occasional intoxicating, mind-on-the-edge experiences; these white manias were infused with the intense, high-flying exuberance, absolute assuredness of purpose, and easy cascading of ideas that had made taking lithium so difficult for so long. But then when the black tiredness inevitably followed, I would be subdued back into the recognition that I had a bad disease, one that could destroy all pleasure and hope and competence. I began to covet the day-to-day steadiness that most of my colleagues seemed to enjoy. I also began to appreciate how draining and preoccupying it had become just to keep my mind bobbing above water. It was true that much got done during the days and weeks of flying high, but it was also true that one generated new projects and made new commitments, which then had to be completed during the grayer times. I was constantly chasing the tail of my own brain, recovering from, or delving into, new moods and new experiences. The new was beginning to lack both newness and luster, and the mere accumulation of experiences was beginning to seem far less meaningful than I imagined exploring the depths of such experiences ought to be.
The extremes in my moods were not nearly as pronounced as they had been, but it was clear that a low-grade, fitful instability had become an integral part of my life. I had now, after many years, finally convinced myself that a certain intellectual steadiness was not only desirable, but essential; somewhere in my heart, however, I continued to believe that intense and lasting love was possible only in a climate of somewhat tumultuous passions. This, I felt, consigned me to being with a man whose temperament was largely similar to my own. I was late to understand that chaos and intensity are no substitute for lasting love, nor are they necessarily an improvement on real life. Normal people are not always boring. On the contrary. Volatility and passion, although often more romantic and enticing, are not intrinsically preferable to a steadiness of experience and feeling about another person (nor are they incompatible). These are beliefs, of course, that one has intuitively about friendships and family; they become less obvious when caught up in a romantic life that mirrors, magnifies, and perpetuates one’s own mercurial emotional life and temperament. It has been with pleasure, and not-inconsiderable pain, that I have learned about the possibilities of love—its steadiness and its growth—from my husband, the man with whom I have lived for almost a decade.
I first met Richard Wyatt at a Christmas party in Washington, and he certainly was not at all what I expected. I had heard of him—he is a well-known schizophrenia researcher, Chief of Neuropsychiatry at the National Institute of Mental Health, and the author of more than seven hundred scientific papers and books—but I was completely unprepared for the handsome, unassuming, quietly charming man I found myself talking with near a gigantic Christmas tree. He was not only attractive, he was very easy to talk to, and we got together often in the months that followed. Less than a year after we met, I returned to London for another marvelous six months, again on sabbatical leave from UCLA, and then went back to Los Angeles long enough to fulfill my post-sabbatical obligations