Bisection , livre ebook

Bisection
A more or less accurate account of bipolar parenting and twin-wrangling
Kenton Hall




Published in 2020 by
Chinbeard Books
www.chinbeardbooks.com/
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Kenton Hall
The right of Kenton Hall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
The views and opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Chinbeard Books or Andrews UK Limited.




AFJ
(love letters)
And to Fathead and Baldy — I swear this is the last thing I’m going to write about you and, yes, I’ve transferred the money.



Prologue
I have bipolar disorder, two teenaged daughters and a long-term relationship with the Arts that is borderline abusive on both sides.
That’s the author’s bio out of the way; I should probably attempt to write the rest of the book.
It’s not as easy as it sounds. Which is not to say that it necessarily sounds easy. You may, for instance, have an intense fear of paper that would render the entire enterprise a clown-infested nightmare from first word to last. Or, perhaps, you are good at something less hideously insecure than writing and are, therefore, busy installing a cocktail bar into your new yacht.
It is difficult for me, specifically, because, until recently, I had no intention of writing this book at all.
Or anything. Ever again.
A few years ago, I wrote and directed a feature film based on my experiences as a parent, at that time, of two twelve-year-old girls. It was an ambitious project, with a budget that would barely cover the lighting department’s sandwiches on any other movie, and it was a labour of love. Then hate. Then love again. Then chiefly hate, with a flicker of lingering affection.
Similar then, to most of my relationships.
If you care to seek it out, I’m not averse to it making its money back in three or four hundred years—I could buy some fresh sandwiches—but, on the advice of multiple mental health professionals, I’ve drawn a line under it.
Indeed, it is germane to this conversation for one reason and one reason alone.
It broke me.
I’d been broken before, as you will learn. There are periods of my life during which it more-or-less qualified as my profession, but it had never happened quite like this. Maybe it was because I was older and there seemed so much less time to rebuild, or perhaps I was just supremely tired of fighting and failing, rinsing and repeating.
What I do know was that I was, for the first time ever, in serious danger of losing my sense of humour.
Parenting saved both it and me.
After several months of maintaining that I would never again tackle anything longer than a grocery list, I was coaxed into writing again by a suggestion from my doctor that I keep a mood diary. The juxtaposition of those two words made me rightly nauseous, but I was dedicated to my recovery and so, every day, for about a year, I wrote an online journal. I tried to be as honest as I could about how I felt, what I saw and who I was. I also chose to do it for an audience, which should tell you a lot.
Unsurprisingly, it started out as rather depressing reading and I seriously considered covering myself legally by including some hotline numbers in the footer.
Slowly, though, jokes started to creep back in, and the surreal voices in my head that had always ducked and dived through slings and arrows, began to sing once more. Chiefly “The Piña Colada Song” for some reason, but we’ll explore that in more detail the next time we walk in the rain.
In the course of rediscovering my muse, I slowly realised that my favourite subject was still my daughters.
Partially out of love and wonder—for and at their intelligence, their sensitivity and their accomplishments—but mostly because I think they are insane.
Honestly, from what I can gather, being sixteen makes bipolar disorder look like an Amish rave.
Now, they will be the first and second to tell you, fiercely and repeatedly, that what I write about them is not always factually accurate.
I have a couple of things to say about that.
Firstly, I have to admit that, due to the nature of my condition, my memory can be a bit of a loose cannon. So, while I am fairly confident that everything between these pages happened, it is entirely possible that some of it didn’t happen exactly, or with as many explosions, as I describe. Then again, it’s equally likely that I’ve toned some of it down, for believability.
Secondly, I maintain there is a greater truth to which I am beholden, which is, of course, what I consider to be funnier.
It all has the side effect of removing this volume from the realms of pure autobiography, which is to everyone’s benefit. For starters, you have no idea who I am, which would completely stress out the marketing department and they’ve already got that sick cat to worry about. Also, I once went into a bookstore that had a “Painful Lives” section and however messed up my childhood was, I don’t want any part of that.
My parents didn’t even have an attic.
Not every word to follow will be about the children—however many notes they write in the margins when they think I’m not looking. Nor will the book entirely concern itself with the ins and outs—or, for that matter, ups and downs—of bipolar disorder.
It is simply the story of one man whose head may have been wired by cowboys but who has found a modicum of joy in wondering why there is a cold cup of tea underneath the sofa.
And if I’ve learned one thing about life, I’m hoping that I’ll remember what it is in the process of telling it.



1: Baby, Baby
My children were born on a January day in 2002. I was twenty-five and they were a fair bit younger, an arrangement which seemed to suit everyone concerned.
Because I am unreasonably fond of understatement, I would classify my mental state at the time as troubled.
I am, you see, the product of a mixed marriage. My father is a psychopath and my mother is a sociopath. They shared, however, a common belief that the other was responsible for most of the world’s ills. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, they managed to produce six children over the course of their 21-year marriage, in what can only be described as an arms race.
They also shared a religion, the kind that suited two people with limited funds, undiagnosed mental illnesses and enough repressed rage to power a small industrial town.
It was—and is—one of those faiths that thrive on making ordinary folk feel special, chosen and guaranteed a ringside seat when the Almighty next relapses into an Old Testament fury.
Needless to say, my childhood was challenging.
We’ll skirt around the details, for the most part; it’s not that kind of book. Besides, I’m never sure how to pitch it. It’s not unusual for me to begin what I consider to be a humorous anecdote about my formative years, only to look up and find that my audience is either weeping openly or feverishly starting online petitions.
The key takeaway, for now, is that I was determined to be a better parent than either of my own had been. It was a low bar and I had a decent run-up, so I felt fairly confident that it could be done. However, when the opportunity finally presented itself, I was terrified.
Obviously, most prospective parents have concerns. They worry about money, about the effect a child will have on their relationship, about how pointy the edges of everything they own have suddenly become and, especially, about making mistakes they can’t walk back.
I worried because I had always wanted children and I have a terrible history when it comes to getting what I want.
There is a memory to which I often return. I must have been about twelve or thirteen and I was ice-skating. I am Canadian, so this was not uncommon. We try to fit in as many cold weather activities as we can, so we can chuckle politely to ourselves when people from other countries bitch about the weather.
As I slid around the rink, in a not-at-all ungainly or borderline dangerous fashion, I spotted a young couple skating in formation, joined at the mittens by a toddler that I assumed, not wanting to get the police involved, was their own.
My heart thudded in my chest. They looked so happy. So much in love. A family and, better still, one that appeared to be the polar opposite of mine, in that no one member was threatening another with the wrath of God.
Also, and this thought I put down to the fact that I was about five years into early onset puberty, I knew that the mother and the father must have done certain things in order to have acquired their bundled-up, chubby-faced offspring.
Throw in a couple of critically-acclaimed novels, a hit record or two, Winona Ryder’s telephone number and a recurring role on The Muppet Show and it was pretty much my ideal life.
A decade later, I had fled to another country, tucked an acrimonious divorce under my belt, chalked up somewhere between two and twelve major nervous breakdowns and was working my way through a series of jobs that, while good, honest labour, taxed my intellect in much the same way as Am