It was 1992 when Jeff attended his first Bipolar Affective Disorder Support Group meeting...a charming young man with dark crinkly hair and fathomless deep dark eyes. At this first meeting he revealed little of himself, other than to say he had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder many years before and had had many hospitalizations. He also revealed that for many years he had self-medicated with alcohol. Mostly he listened throughout the evening and it was difficult to tell if he was shy, bored or perhaps depressed.
At the end of the meeting he approached me and asked if I had time to go somewhere for "a quick coffee", he had some questions he wished to ask. I agreed and met him at a coffee shop not far from our meeting place. We talked, and shared over endless cups of coffee...the pot was bottomless and neither of us even noted the waitress refilling our cups so intense was our conversation. The closing of the coffee shop in the wee hours of the morning sent us home, both of us with the feeling we had met someone very special who truly understood! We had exchanged phone numbers but I really was not expecting him to call, just hoped that he would be at the next meeting in two weeks.
To my surprise he phoned the following day and we chatted for an hour on the telephone and made arrangements to meet the following evening for coffee again. This was the beginning of a developing pattern. From that time on there was rarely a day went by that we either did not meet or talk to each other on the telephone. Some days we would go somewhere and walk and talk, other times a coffee shop was our meeting place, and still other times (rarely) I would go with him to a bar. I didn't drink, and urged him not to because of the medication he was taking, but did not resist when he really wanted to go.
One day, early in our friendship, he told me that his mother had committed suicide when he was three years old. He remembered it! He told me he was outside playing and his baby brother was sleeping in the carriage in the yard, when he heard the shot. His dad, a teacher, was at work. He ran into the house and found his mother in the basement and ran to a neighbor for help. Though his dad later remarried and had two more sons, Jeff never truly felt he belonged. He had never seen his mother's grave and we went out to the cemetery to look for it. When we finally located it his eyes filled with tears...I opened my arms and we embraced...holding each other tightly...as I tried to transfer some of my strength and deep sympathy to him. That hug was the beginning of many...and a changing point in our friendship.
