The Cycle of Story
One year after my husband’s manic episode, our story has evolved and so has the storyteller.
It’s been almost a year since Justin’s manic episode occurred. Over the course of that year, I’ve told the story of his episode/psychosis and the de-escalating mania, depression, and recovery that followed more times than I can count.
Lately I’ve been reflecting on the ways the story of this year has changed me and also the ways I’ve changed in how I tell that story.
The Only Story
In the very beginning, I told the story of Justin’s episode to our parents. Then to the ER doctors, the nurses, the crisis interventionist, the social worker. That was back when I had no idea what I was even telling, when it all came pouring out in an urgent rush, when I felt compelled to leave no detail untold, in case that might be the critical clue that would solve the puzzle of what was happening to my husband.
As the story continued to form, with a diagnosis of Bipolar 1 and my visits with Justin in the hospital and everything that came after, I kept on telling it. To friends and family, to my therapist, to colleagues and classmates, to my YouTube audience, to pretty much anyone I interacted with during that time.
Just like an elevator pitch, I had different iterations for different purposes. The condensed version for general explanation. The extended version for those who cared for us and were willing to hear the bizarre and disturbing details. The 10-second version that became my default introduction at the many online therapy and support groups that I participated in over the past year.
I’ve spoken the story out loud, sometimes matter-of-factly and sometimes overcome with emotion and tears. I’ve written it, in texts and emails, here in these essays, and in snail mail letters to distant friends.
For a time, the events of his episode were a litany, that I repeated in my head like a mantra. What happened each day, how long ago it happened, what came next, when something changed, at what point I realized this thing or that.
For the past year, this has been THE story, the only story in my life, the only thing that mattered. Everything else (the story of my career and my creativity, the story of our hopes and dreams, the story of our life beyond Justin’s mental health crisis) was put on hold.
But lately, I’ve noticed something shifting. Slightly, slowly, and subtly - the story is starting to release its hold on me.
More To Me Than This
Over the past several weeks, I’ve been participating in a Women’s Embodiment Circle hosted by Deborah, the spiritual director I’ve been working with since last fall. (I had never heard of spiritual direction before meeting Deborah, and it’s become another valuable resource of compassion in my healing toolbox).
After the third week of being in presence with this wonderful group of women, sharing our thoughts around our bodies, our fears, our inspirations, I realized it was the first time since last March that I had introduced myself in new setting and didn’t lead with: “Hi, my name is Devan, and my husband had a manic episode.”
It wasn’t like I’d forgotten that part of me and my story. It just didn’t feel like the only part of me anymore.
When I recently penned a letter to a longtime friend (the last in a series of such letters I’ve been writing over the last couple of months to people we care about, but hadn’t been in close contact with at the time of Justin’s episode), I realized I could tell the story of everything that happened without it feeling so charged. I didn’t have to relive every word in my body as I wrote it. I didn’t feel the need to share all the visceral details I had included in earlier tellings, just to help myself believe that they had really happened, that I hadn’t somehow created it all in my head.
For a long time, I needed that constant reflection. Having people who cared about me listening and telling me: yes, this happened. It was real. We believe you. You did great. It’s going to be okay.
It took a long time, but now I’m beginning to be able to tell myself those things and to truly believe them in my heart.
A New Chapter
Back in the early days of Justin’s recovery, I attended an online therapy group focused on “Navigating Changes in Relationships.” The leader of that group was a caring and skillful therapist named Jolie, who often reminded us that whatever we were currently going through was just one chapter in our lives - not the entire book.
At the time, it felt impossible to envision my future, to imagine a time beyond the immediacy of Justin’s crisis. I took comfort in her words and yet, in that moment, it was hard for me to believe them. Now, all these months later, I’m starting to feel that the pages of my book are turning again.
I know how fortunate and blessed I have been to be able to tell my story. So many people who have lived through trauma never get to have that experience of being heard, because they don’t have a safe space to do so or they are so locked up in shame and fear that their stories are frozen inside them.
I don’t take for granted the fact that I’ve been surrounded by compassionate people and skilled professionals throughout this journey. It has strengthened my own commitment to supporting others, as I move forward in a new chapter of my own story: developing my wellness and embodiment coaching practice.
I want to be part of that support network, providing a container where others can share their stories and begin to integrate their own experiences in a place of non-judgement, care, and acceptance.
I’m trying not to plan too far ahead or attempt to control this new story too much. I’m trying to be open to uncertainty and possibility and serendipity, trusting that the same fortitude that carried me through this past year will carry me into a future filled with hope and promise and meaningful service.
I know I will continue telling the story of Justin’s episode and recovery for the rest of our lives. It’s become an integral part of who we are, as individuals and as a couple, and will always be interwoven into the story of the future we create together. The difference is that now I believe in that future - I believe that our story hasn’t come to an end.