The days when my bipolar brother seemed normal

I remember the good old days when my brother seemed normal. Photographs taken in Korea show him as a skinny, energetic kid, popular with the neighborhood boys. After we moved to America, he had a knack for making friends despite the language barrier. Groups of boys would come to our apartment to listen to music and play video games. Sometimes, there were girls, and pretty ones too. Deborah was almost as tall as Tom and had long, milk-chocolate hair. One day, after coming home from school, I was surprised to find her alone with Tom in the living room. Sitting on the floor in front of the TV, she squealed as her yellow Pacman was cornered and eaten by a monster.


Pacman, by Namco LTD

Several years ago, when Tom was homeless and experiencing what psychiatrists call an acutely manic phase, he was convinced that Deborah would marry him. After decades of no contact, he called her seven times in one hour. By then, Deborah was a lawyer in L.A. and in no mood to deal with a stalker. I had to intervene and assure her that Tom would not show up at her door, that the romance was all in his head.

Fortunately, my brother is no longer in this acutely manic phase, but I often worry he'll return there. Since we now live far apart, I have just a vague idea of the swings he goes through each day. Sometimes he sounds lethargic, and I imagine him sitting in his small apartment, his face bloated from napping. Other times, I hear a few bottles of beer in his voice, and I have to be extra careful of what I say.

I hope he's OK.

My bipolar brother needs friends

Over the last ten years or so, as my brother descended further into madness, he lost all of his friends. At forty years old, he has no wife, girlfriend, pal, or even an acquaintance he could meet for coffee. He is the man sitting all by himself at a restaurant on a Saturday night. His conversations involve answering questions such as, "Would you like fries with that?"

It could be worse, I know. At least he's not a thief, a murderer, or God forbid, a child molester. Insanity is the stuff of genius or terror. Either you're Van Gogh or the Virginia Tech killer. My brother is neither. He's just sick and alone. Always alone.

I hope he's OK.


Photo from Heynicepictures.com