Bipolar Me

I knew Max and his wife Sheila for a long time. We went to large gatherings together. We all loved mysteries and fantasy books and swapped them back and forth. Max and I both studied martial arts and compared styles. Whenever I wrote an article for a martial arts magazine, he had me autograph it. When they moved to a big house in the country, I spent time there. We went antiquing. I got to know their children, some of whom are still my friends today.

When I was editing a magazine, both Max and Sheila wrote for me. Max sent me copy in envelopes addressed to Fearless, Crusading Editor and variations thereof. He called me a lot too, about the magazine or just to talk, back in the day before bosses monitored their employees’ phone calls quite so assiduously.

They weren’t just a couple to me. They were individual friends. And they trusted that I wouldn’t go running to the other if they told me personal things. I didn’t tell Sheila that Max had a financial reverse that he hadn’t told her about. I didn’t tell Max that Sheila had a medical issue she wasn’t ready to discuss. I figured such things were theirs to work out. And I didn’t tell Max that Sheila meant to divorce him on a certain date. Again, it seemed to me that it was not my place to be a go-between.

It wasn’t an amicable divorce. Max didn’t want a divorce at all. Sheila was adamant that she did. Max asked me to find articles on how bad divorce was for the kids and talk to Sheila. I never did. I didn’t feel it was my place.

Then one day Max called me. I knew it was going to be a serious, difficult conversation. In it, he expressed suicidal ideation. I tried all the things you’re supposed to do. I asked if he had eaten or slept recently. I encouraged him to do so. I asked if he could listen to the music he loved. I asked if he had talked to his psychiatrist or a religious counselor. I asked if he had a plan.

He did. There was a gun in the house.

And I ratted him out.

I knew the name of his therapist, and I called him. And I called Sheila, and I told her. I didn’t want her to come home from work and find his dead body.

Max forgave me for calling his therapist. He never forgave me for calling Sheila. I saw him in public a few times after that, and he was dismissive and rude. I didn’t try to maintain the connection after that.

I stayed close with Sheila for a while until she gave up on my depressive behavior, fearing that I might be suicidal, too. But that’s another story.

To this day, I miss Max’s presence in my life. I read a book or an article and think, “Max would like that.”

And to this day, I can’t feel regret for ratting him out. I feel I did what I had to for my friend. If the same situation arose today, I would do exactly the same, even though it meant losing my friend. At least he’s still alive.