In the Bedroom Next Door

I was four years old when my father went crazy.

He had taken himself off the lithium that controlled his mood swings, convinced he could conquer his demons through sheer act of will. He began his decline late one night, as I slept in the bedroom adjacent to my parents’. As I look back, I am amazed that my infant sister and I were able to sleep through it all, unaware of the storm brewing in the bedroom next door.

In a matter of hours, my father went from a state of agitation to despair. Pacing the bedroom, he railed against his boss for denying him a promotion. It was not the first time my father had been held back professionally, the victim of an unfortunate tendency toward belligerence I would see many times as I grew older. My beleaguered mother tried to calm him, alternately speaking soothingly and begging him to keep his voice down. Sometime before midnight, he collapsed on the bed and fell into her arms. My mother, a nervous woman with striking hazel eyes, cradled my father as he burrowed his head into her shoulder and wept. When he finally calmed down, she called my father’s psychiatrist, who set up an appointment for the next morning.

In the grips of his mania, my father would never have agreed to see the psychiatrist; it would have meant admitting a weakness. Manic dad was Superman. But now, depressed and defeated, he relented. I can imagine his face in the same expression I came to know in later years—hollow eyes heavy with resignation, looking both distant and pleading. Perhaps he also felt some sense of relief about seeing the psychiatrist the next day, because ultimately he fell asleep. My mother, exhausted and frightened, spent a fitful night dreading what the next day might bring.

The next morning, my father awoke early in a full psychotic state. As he turned on the bedside lamp and leapt out of bed, he roused my mother, who followed his motion to the nearby closet. Rummaging through his work clothes, he pulled out a dark suit, white shirt, and conservati