It’s 1 p.m. on Father’s Day. Maryland is having one of those rare perfect days: gentle breeze, warm sun, the brightest blue sky I can remember. I’m supposed to take my dad to play miniature golf in DC, something we haven’t done together in years. But something has been off for weeks.
I’m out doing my daily DoorDash deliveries when I see a group of young men, maybe in their twenties, wearing red bandanas, all dressed in black, walking into the McDonald’s where I’m supposed to pick up my next order. I catch one of them looking back at me. Suddenly I realize, this is the gang that's been hunting me down for the past few weeks.
Panic shoots through me. My palms go sweaty. My heart starts pounding. They found me, and they’re not here for a Big Mac and fries. They’re here for me.
I reverse out of the parking space and hit the gas. I need to get away. In my rearview mirror, a red SUV with blacked-out windows is right behind me. I know these are the men who are after me, and I know they won’t stop until they get me.
I start swerving through the lanes, trying to shake them. I turn off the GPS on my phone, certain that’s how they’re tracking me. Erratic right turn. Spontaneous left. Eventually, I lose them.
I pull into the back alley of a shopping center and let out a deep breath, but I’m too afraid to drive home. I don’t want them knowing where I live. After sitting with it a while, I decide the only safe place left is the hospital. There, at least, I’ll be protected.
Forty-five minutes later, I check myself in. I already know where this is going, back into the psychiatric ward for the third time. While I’m filling out the paperwork, a man in his mid-forties, wearing a Pink Floyd shirt, keeps looking at me like he’s trying to put his thoughts into my mind. Given the shirt, I figure he probably knows what he’s doing. And what he’s telling me is to get out, that they know I’m here, and that they’re coming for me.
I knew I shouldn’t have come here.
I bolt back to my car and speed to my dad’s house as fast as I can. Once I’m home, I fall apart. Panicked. Crying. Certain my life is in danger. My dad is worried, and I don’t know what to do anymore. After a long back and forth, I finally let him drive me to the hospital himself.
We never made it to miniature golf that day.
This wasn’t the first time I’d lived through a manic episode or experienced psychosis. It had been happening, off and on, for over five years.
It took a lot to get to a place where I could find a semblance of sanity in all the madness: medications, long-term treatment, sober living, therapy, meditation, retreats, and recovery meetings. Eventually, I felt like I had some grip on what the psychiatrists call a dual diagnosis: Bipolar I disorder with psychotic features and a substance use disorder.
The Middle Way Home is where I’m going to share all of it. Addiction. Living with bipolar disorder. And finding something like peace through the teachings of the Buddha.
I’m starting this now because I’m finally at a place where I can manage my symptoms, where I feel good in my sobriety, and where I want to share what I’ve learned. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I might be able to help someone still walking the path I’ve walked.
These essays won’t be filled with slogans or easy answers. I don’t want this to be preachy or prescriptive; I’ve had enough people try to help me that way, and it never worked. What helped me was people telling the truth about their own recovery and their own minds. That’s what I want to offer here.
I never expected Buddhist teachings to help me manage bipolar disorder or stay in recovery. But over the years, they’ve turned out to be exactly what I needed. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps” never worked for me. What I needed was a gentle guide, one that actually understood my condition, its causes, and a way through it.
So if any of this speaks to you, I’d love for you to subscribe. I’ll be sharing new essays regularly on addiction recovery, bipolar disorder, and finding the middle way home.
I’ll see you on the other side.
With peace, Wes