 |
| Waukegan, Illinois |
Downtown Waukegan at
midnight on a chilly October night is not a nice place to find one’s self but
that’s where I was when I started walking from the government buildings up a
hill towards a gas station. The station was closed but the pay phone worked so
I made a collect call to Susan, to ask her to come get me. I gave her the
address of the gas station and tried to explain how to get there from our house
in Libertyville, but when an hour and a half had passed and she was still not
there, I called back again. Surprised when Susan answered I snapped at her,
“Where the fuck are you?”
“Don’t talk to me like
that!” she snapped back, “I called my father, he will pick you up soon…he’s not
there yet?”
“No…” but no sooner had
I said that when a shining Mercedes pulled into the parking lot and I could see
her father’s angry, stiff face. I apologized, “I’m sorry, he’s here now.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in
the morning.” She spoke softly, but firmly, “I’ll leave the back door unlocked,
okay?”
“You’re going to bed?”
I wanted to tell her about what happened, I needed to unload and I started to
freak out, “What the hell?”
“I have to work in the
morning.” She snapped. Her voice sounded as cold as the harsh October winds
that late night, “If you want to talk to me, see me in the morning. Good night,
don’t keep my father waiting for you!”
“Ok, fine…” I glanced
at her dad, “Good night.”
The next morning, after
a few restless hours in my bed in the basement, I had a short and curt
conversation with Susan about the whole ordeal. She was in a rush to get going
to work and running late. I was running on a few measly hours of sleep fueled
by this incredible sense of raw anger, indignation, and outrage. It was not
good chemistry for a conversation and it exploded into a raging argument as she
walked out the door and went off to work. Her sister was home, she was upstairs
playing with Cassidy and heard the entire argument. Once Susan was long gone,
after I returned to my basement dungeon bedroom, Michelle came down and see me;
she was trying to make peace for her sister but I was very agitated. I snapped
on Michelle, I yelled, cursed and blamed her as being the reason Susan and I
were involved in marriage counseling. I stormed out of the house, got in my
little red pick-up, and drove off on a long ride to nowhere. I had no
direction, no destination, a credit card or two and felt really pissed off
about everything, my life sucked. I was unhappy, I could not find Valerie, I had
yet to make any kind of mark on the world. This was not where I imagined my
life would be, once again, I was a stranger in my own home, lost in the world,
feeling deflated and at the end of another fucking rope! I was just a loser
working at a gas station at 32 years old...some fucking child prodigy with a
gift for creativity, I was just a useless piece of shit!
 |
| Does couples therapy ever work? |
A few days later, at
our couples therapy session, the focus of the dialogue shifted from what was
maybe wrong with us as a couple to what exactly is the problem with d’Philip
and what should be done about correcting his behavior? We saw this one pair of
therapist, a man and woman team and it they suggested that I might have bipolar
disorder. I never heard of this ailment but when they explained some of the
symptoms and indicated it had previously been diagnosed as manic depression, I
started to understand the matter. I wasn’t so sure, however, I agreed with this
suggestion and though I might have been willing to get checked out for this
disorder, we never got that far with this therapeutic team. We switched to a
different therapist, one who focused on women’s issues. I didn’t like her, I
didn’t trust her and though I would follow along for a while, by my next
birthday in December, my 32nd birthday, I could see the writing clearly on the
wall for our relationship. After the holidays, when the first of the new year
of 1994 had started to spring, one night when Susan and I just got home from
our weekly marriage counseling session, out of the blue, I simply asked her,
“What if I am bipolar?”
“What?” she put her
purse and briefcase on the floor next to the sofa and sat down, flipped on the
television and shook her head, “What are you talking about?”
“What if I am bipolar,
like those therapists suggested?” I stood between her and the television and
with my hands on my hips, I simply asked, “I mean, I’ve been thinking about
that and reading up on it and it’s really all about an imbalance of brain
chemicals. Maybe I should be tested or something?”
“No, no way, I don’t
buy that diagnosis!” she snapped and lit a cigarette, “That’s just a cop out,
really, you’re not bipolar!”
“How do you know?” I
asked, “What if I am?”
“That’s just a bullshit
thing, it’s not even a real disorder.” She took a stiff puff from her
cigarette, the burning cherry ember glowed with anger, “You don’t want to be
bipolar, trust me, it’s a really fucked up thing.”
“I don't want to be
bipolar?” I huffed, “As if I had a choice?” I shook my head, took a seat next
to my wife, “I’m just asking, Susan…” I pressed for a direct answer, “What if,
like maybe I am, what if I do have some kind of chemical imbalance, what if I
am bipolar?”
“Well, if you were
bipolar…” she took another quick drag from her cigarette and then, like she was
spitting out the words, “I could not be married to you anymore.”
“What?” I was shocked,
my jaw dropped, I again asked, “If I was bipolar you couldn’t stay married to
me? What the fuck?”
“I couldn’t trust you,
I mean, I have to protect Cassidy.” She waved her smoky hand and continued,
“What if you didn’t take those meds? What if you snapped or something? No, if
you are bipolar, I couldn’t stay with you, it’s just not safe.”
“That’s fucked up!” I
knew at that very moment it was the exact end of our marriage, “What about in
sickness or health? I mean, would you leave me if I was diabetic or if I had a
heart condition? Fuck, that’s goddamn cold ass shit!”
“That’s different,
d’Philip…” she stood up and started walking towards the stairs, “You know it,
if you were that sick, so sick you were bipolar or something, that’s dangerous,
that’s all I’m saying! Think about it, do you really want to be bipolar?”
“As if I would have a
choice!” I yelled as she started up the stairs, like she often did, just
walking away from the situation, “Thanks Susan, that’s real love…fuck this!”
“Talk to me in the
morning, when you’re not so angry.” She called down and then, before shutting
the bedroom door, “Good night!”
“Good fucking bye!” I
muttered to myself and then headed down to the basement in a frenzied and blind
moment of anger. I gathered my basic clothing and stuffed them into my large
duffel bag. I packed up my equipment, put most of my stuff in various boxes and
labeled them. I dragged the futon off the frame and brought it out the back
door and into the back of my pickup truck. I went back inside and grabbed my
duffel bag, my pillow and blanket, my briefcase and notebooks, my essential
photos and a few of my minor camping things. I loaded and packed them into my
truck and then went back inside one final time. I went upstairs and into
Cassidy’s room, he was sleeping in a curled up position, his head upon a pillow
so peacefully. I brushed back his soft blond hair and kissed him gently on the
cheek, whispering, “I Love You my Golden Boy, I Love You so very much, I’m
really sorry about this, but I hope one day you’ll know and understand…I Love
You!”
 |
| This was like my truck... |
I got in the little
cherry red Chevy pick-up truck and headed west out of town, my eyes barely able
to see through the tear stained thoughts of leaving my sweet little
child…again. The night was dark and felt empty, just a tattered old black-top
ribbon stretching on for endless miles, nothing but wide open farmlands on
either side of the road. There was no moon but thousands of stars without anything
to say. Passing through a small farm towns, imagining a different life for
myself, a life in some small forgotten rural town. I could be somebody else, I
could be left alone, I could be living in the fresh country air; then I drove
past a pig stall of sleeping hogs and it smelled to high heaven! I cranked my
Grateful Dead bootleg and chain smoked myself through the miles, gripping the
wheel tightly, holding on for dear life. I kept driving until at some point in
the wee hours, the road ended along The Mississippi River. I turned south and
down the road a little way until I found a small dirt pull off and followed it
to the end, a little dirt parking lot with a fishing pier on the river. I
climbed in the bed of the truck and pulled the blankets over me, it was
sometime just before the sky was dawning with a new sun, I cried myself quickly
to sleep.
.jpg) |
| I love all the images of John in this piece! |
A few hours later, perhaps 6 or so, I woke up
from an intense dream. John Lennon came to me to talk about something called
“The Split/Apple” and how I needed to “share the knowledge, share the sin.” I
don’t know we where we actually anyplace, it was in a nowhere space, an
ethereal environment where I could see him, it was John, the Lennon I always
knew and he was talking to me like we’d known each other forever. In the very
real feeling dream, I thought about incredible it was to converse with Lennon,
yet I also had this level of comfort, like I too have known him all these years
too. Lennon continued a dialogue, I was listening closely, but truthfully I don’t
have a clue about what we were really talking about, it was all just words
flowing endlessly, like in the song, across the universe of time and space,
real and unreal, dream and awake. The only thing I remember, the only clear
words were John Lennon telling me to “share the knowledge, share the sin” and
something called “The Split/Apple”. It was one of those dreams so real that
when I realized I was still parked along the river, not floating on a cloud
with Lennon, I again started crying. I sat up to compose myself, pulled out my
journal and scribbled these notes, when I went to write the words of “split”
and “apple”, it just flowed from my pen as “The Split/Apple” and I got this
feeling I got something right somehow.
Eventually two good old
boys in a bigger pick-up truck, with fishing poles, pulled into the lot next to
me. Time had slipped away, it was later in the morning, it warmer and there was
more traffic passing by on the road up the little hill. I packed up me bedding,
rolled the windows down, started the truck and popped in a John Lennon CD. I
was still tired, but truthfully, I was broken apart, sad and feeling my soul
crushed. My heart pushed tears from my eyes without any control, it took me a
while to get it myself together. Once I did, however, I wiped my face then
simply left, like my marriage to Susan, I never went to that place again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This
excerpt is from “My BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…”, it’s the end of
Chapter 2, “Without Love In The Dream” and it’s very exact origin of the idea
and term of The Split/Apple. I promised my publishing partners I would share
some of the book and refocus on promoting the book and my mental health
awareness agenda. It seems the past few weeks, while I’ve been toying with the
idea of “#splitapple2015” and the potentials of a Merry Prankster style circus
of The Grateful Dead’s “Fare Thee Well” event in Chicago next July…I’ve been
neglecting my obligations of promoting my work, as stipulated in both the legal
agreements and by my very words. To me, my word is far more significant than
the contractual obligations. Contracts are paper and words, make believe and
can be broken, misconstrued and abused. But my word is always my word and that’s
what I told The Intrepid Editor Press, so unless you’re REALLY interested in
learning more about my book and how to survive a relationship broken by mental
illness, I have no hard feelings if you simply stop here, dig? I’m not going to
talk about anything else that is remotely related to the fucking Grateful Dead’s
dog and pony show, I’d rather talk about something that really matters; Love.
In
Chapter 2, “Without Love In The Dream” is about the two marriages I had but
lost and the impact it had on my own state of mind. Divorce, as many people
know, is one of the most stressful events in any person’s life. No matter if
they are mentally balanced, spiritually connected or physically strong…a
divorce is a really difficult event to grow past. It’s especially more
difficult when children are involved. If you’re like me, I was a child of
divorce too, it stays with the child as they grow up and form relationships of
their own. In my experience, especially with my second marriage to Cassidy’s
mother, my BiPolar Disorder was a defining factor, even though I was not yet
diagnosed, this relationship was undermined and sabotaged by yours truly
without even realizing it! That’s one of the weird, strange things about
BiPolar, being in the center of the chaos, the eye of the storm you’re creating
looks entirely different. Unless the other person in your relationship
understands this about you, it’s impossible to imagine a healthy relationship. One
of the most devious symptoms of being BiPolar is the ability to be a master
manipulator which requires a flawless ability to spin tall tells, bullshit on
the fly and straight out fabricate lies that are stated with the conviction of
indisputable fact. BiPolar people are really good at this so in the
relationship, it’s really easy to gain control and steer the fate of the
relationship. Typically, in my life, when I do that, I always crash on the
rocks and nearly drown in despair.
I doubt
there’s anyone who would argue that the basis of all good relationships is
truth and communication. The unfortunate fate of BiPolar people who are not in
control of their disease, is they are not capable of doing either of those two
skills very well. I always shaped conversations to mean what I wanted them to
mean, regardless of the truth. I reasoned with myself, truth is all relative
anyways, but that too was a lie. I have excellent speaking skills, I can engage
most anyone in a conversation and this often fools people into believing I have
good communication skills, but that’s not accurate. Good communication requires
equal amounts of speaking and listening, the listening part I typically faked
and nobody much noticed. This makes forming solid relationships something I
struggled with most of my life. It wasn’t until I was 33 years old, when my relationship cycle changed. I met a 19 year old girl one night in February of 1995 and on July 16th, we got hitched, Vegas style! That girl, some
twenty years later, is still my wife because this time, there was Real Love in
The Dream.
 |
| Notice the apples & serpent... |
I know many, many people and fortunately most of these
people never had to endure a real and lasting relationships with me. Most folks
I met drift past, like others riding along a long river current, we pass one
another and smile, but rarely do we cross into one another’s currents again.
That’s maybe why I’m still remembered fondly in some circles, many people just
remember me for the better impressions I left. I’m lucky so I cherish this
opportunity today, as a man in control of my dis-ease, I make the most to be as
very authentic and real, to remain as truthful and vulnerable, to truly listen
with both respect and honest consideration, because I can’t afford to lose any more
people. It also makes for much better relationships! So where's all this going?
The idea is that in gaining control of my disorder, by getting it in order, I
came to understand the importance of truth and communication. It was a long,
difficult process to get this disease in control, but once done, it’s an ease
to manage a very productive, rewarding life with an abundance of good
relationships, and that makes this baby feel like a rich man!
 |
| www.dphilipchalmers.net |
The book, published by The Intrepid Editor Press, is called “My
BiPolar Reality; How Life Goes On…” and is available directly from my website (www.dphilipchalmers.net) where you
get an autographed, first edition copy plus other freebies; or, shop for it on-line…ask
for it at your favorite purveyor of books, magazines and gifts…or ask Santa, he’s
BiPolar too! The end of the end is my friends, we’re all on this tiny blue
planet spinning in space for such a very short amount of time and although it’s
hard to Imagine, we can and are obliged to leave this world a better place than
when we first arrived…I’m trying, in my own way, to do this by sharing the
BiPolar experience, by helping to enlighten the public and help end the stigma attached
to mental issues and I know, only because I am most truthful with myself, I
know I am doing the right thing and will leave this Life better than I started
it…so, I’ve changed one life, my own, that’s a fact, it’s the truth and it made
the world a little bit better.
Thanks for reading, please re-share at will and if you get
my book, say something so I can write back directly to you too! As always,
everyone please take care, be well and share kindness!
 |
| dphilip.chalmers@gmail.com |
Peace,
d’Philip
16 February 2015
San Joaquin Valley Republic of California
