The Bipolar Buddha?

Posted on December 11, 2005 in Bipolar Disorder Myths & Mysticism

After he encountered the suffering of the world for the first time, the Buddha fled his palace and sought refuge in a forest. He sat for a long time, not moving, not speaking to anyone, not eating or drinking. His ribs pumped from his sides and he took on the countenance of an insect. According to one story, a woman bearing a basket of fresh bread passed him. He smelled it and realized that he was hungry. He realized that if he kept following the path that he was on, he’d die prematurely. This suffering was pointless, as pointless as the life of pleasure he’d enjoyed in the palace where he was shielded from every care, every unfilled appetite, every sorrow. There he was plied with endless fine food, music on demand, and gratuitous sex. Not desiring to return to the life in the palace, the Buddha merely rose, ate, and began to walk the Middle Path.

You might call the palace Mania and the forest Depression. Those of us who suffer from bipolar disorder know both places and we know them well. They are places formed of neurotransmitters — of serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine — that splash up and solidify, forming cutting crystals that we fall upon when there is no more energy for a wave. The Buddha taught that all Life was Suffering and I believe that he was right. Even when we’re happiest, this mind which is this brain inside this body chafes and splinters. For those of us who suffer from bipolar disorder, we go farther than most people realize is possible in our moods. (Schizophrenics can say the same in a different sense.) We suffer more than others and I do not think this is either a gift or a curse. It hurts.

A few times in my life, I’ve run into people who tell me that they envy me in my disease. Like the Buddha facing his disciples, I look them in the eye. The Buddha said “You don’t want to grow fat in the Palace or starve yourself in the Forest like I did.” And I say “You don’t want this disease.”

Body and mind are one. Because I have this disease, I know that with my whole being. Two points of view, I think, hurt us in recovery: first, that we can separate the mind from the body. This causes us to labor needlessly, trying to find ways of fixing a rogue chemistry without chemistry. And the second is that we are separate persons when, in actuality, there is a single Universe and it does not end when it reaches our skin. This causes us to focus entirely on the inside and forget that we live among others.

So I take my meds to reduce my suffering. I attend support group meetings to remind myself not merely that I am not alone, but that I am connected to others. When I go into a support group meeting, I pause at the door. “Everyone in that room is mentally ill,” I say to myself. “And when I go in there, that will not change.” You could extend the thought further to the people you meet when you leave the meeting, to the animals, to the plants, to the planet itself, and to the stars you see in the night. Every one of those things is part of the Universe, that the Universe is filled with the Universe, and my being here does not change that.

What do I think the Buddha would say to me if we met at a bus stop? Probably to eschew the mania and the depression, to work with my psychiatrist, and take my meds, then work on the other life matters that face me — especially working to rid myself of the bad habits that I acquired while helplessly partying in the palace and starving myself in the forest.

The Buddha, I think, would understand that the Disease is not wisdom, though by understanding It, one can acquire wisdom. It’s not the kind of gift someone would give to another, not out of love. It’s the Universe inside oneself acting as if it were subject to different laws from the rest of the Universe. You can best challenge it and manage it by practicing a Middle Road made easier by the discoveries of modern neurological science.