There's no romance in bipolar disease

I've long realized that you can't tell the truth to people about having a crazy brother. It's not only unacceptable party conversation, people just don't understand the gravity of the situation. They confuse mental illness with likable eccentricity. "Everyone's crazy," they say. "What's normal? No one's normal."

My brother passed his 40th birthday at a homeless shelter. He'd found his way there after being kicked out of a half-way house. (He was so manic and violent that he was asked to leave.)

Our pop culture romanticizes craziness. How many times have we heard, "He's crazy, but a genius"? My brother's illness has no such romance. Truly crazy people don't have admirers or friends. Truly crazy people are alone. They are society's Untouchables. No one wants to be with them because they're not fun, they're not normal, they don't make us feel sexy.

It's Friday, the start of the Labor Day weekend. I'm meeting some good friends at a restaurant. I should be on my way, ready to smile and sparkle. Instead, I'm thinking of my brother. I hope he's OK.


Photo from algemeiner.com