One brief chat with neighbors showed how reaching out can ease isolation and bring moments of hope with bipolar depression.
If human exchange were currency, it would be among the most devalued coins on earth.
Our world can feel chaotic. Acts of violence and mistrust seem ever-present. I already struggle to reach out because of my bipolar disorder symptoms.
At times I slip into deep depression and overwhelming anxiety. Simple things become difficult. Getting dressed or stepping outside can feel monumental. But I need social interaction to see even a faint light at the end of the tunnel.
Even when I’m more stable, human contact feels like oxygen.
From a simple “hello” to a stranger to time with a friend, connecting with others can break the “broken record” of gloom and doom. Let’s face it, I can only connect so far on a computer, and sometimes even social media feels like too much.
Curiosity Replaced Isolation, One Question at a Time
To find the real connection I crave, I have to move toward it. That means leaving my apartment.
Sometimes, all it takes is riding the elevator.
When one elevator breaks, I see twice as many people. How can we all live here side by side and remain total strangers?
During one of these “broken elevator” weeks, I often rode with a grandmother and a dark-haired little girl. The child buried her head in her guardian’s skirt. The woman’s arm circled the girl’s shoulders protectively.
I sensed neither of them spoke English. Still, I reached out.
I knew a conversation could quiet my negative thoughts. Curiosity began to replace depression.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Cuba,” she said softly, eyes downcast.
Perhaps she’s wary of prejudice. Maybe she longs for the land she lost.
Loss, I can relate to that. During my first relapse, which lasted three years, I lost both my career and beloved husband. Being an alternative rock disc jockey and journalist in the 1990s had defined me.
Back then, it was almost fashionable to talk about depression and reckless self-medication. Living with bipolar disorder and mania, I was quick-witted and never short on material. But ending up on a “do not rehire” list was a blow that still stings.
A Small Moment With Big Meaning
I didn’t want to dwell on the past, so I kept asking questions.
“How long have you been in the States?”
“Oh, about 30…,” she began, then trailed off. We caught each other’s eyes and laughed. The little girl peeked out and smiled.
The elevator reached the top floor. As the doors opened, I realized the world’s smallest violin had stopped playing in my head. They waved goodbye, and I haven’t seen them since.
For a moment, I hoped for what can feel impossible: a sense of universal unity and understanding. I was proud that I crossed the walls of language and culture. I had reached out, and the gesture was returned. I felt happy.
For someone living with bipolar depression and anhedonia (the inability to feel pleasure), happiness, hope, and personal pride are no small things. They’re seeds of healing and growth.
All because of one broken elevator.
One elevator is still working. Going up or down? Step in. We’re all on a journey together.
UPDATED: Originally posted Dec. 16, 2015