When I was seven, we had a kitten named Frisky. He lived with us for five months before he was sent to the pound to be put to sleep. We weren’t sure what it was, but Frisky had uncontrollable bouts of aggression. He would get up, come across the room and begin to attack us. These attacks always took us by surprise. They seemed to be unconnected to Frisky’s environment – they seemed to work themselves outward from the inside. All we knew was that we were covered with scratches and bites. There was no clear sign when the orange ball of fur snuggled in a lap would clasp all four limbs around us in fury.

My grandmother called the pound to pick Frisky up after a particularly growl-filled, panting display of teeth and talons. He lay sleeping next to her in the green tweed chair, spent from his previous rage. Grandma slowly stroked his marmalade coat. She spoke softly to him about how it was best that he would no longer suffer. Most of all she crooned that it wasn’t his fault. She continued this dialogue with Frisky until the pound truck arrived. As the truck drove out of sight, she returned to dicing onions for the evening supper. With tears streaming down my cheeks from losing our kitten, I handed her a tissue to dab her eyes. She did not look up as she thanked me and commented on how strong the smell of onions in this batch seemed to be.

Seven years later, my grandmother stood outside my Uncle Lou’s bedroom door and spoke softly to him. She told him the illness wasn’t his fault, that the world was a hard place and harder on him. She soothingly told him that we were taking him to the hospital to get well.

Lou had been to doctors before. He went willingly to the doctor who prescribed the medication a year ago. It was prescribed to lift him out of the catacombs of depression. The medication worked. It raised him up out of the depression and through the mood spectrum like the takeoff of the small Cessna plan he used to fly. But his mood did not stabilize like the aircraft did. His mood continued to climb, to soar past equilibrium, past the rational. The upward spiral into the first of his many manic episodes left those of us who lived with him breathless. His demeanor changed. His wardrobe changed. His relaxed curiosity about many subjects mutated rapidly. He became compulsive, restless, eager to match the flight of ideas in his speech with action.

Our comfortable Friday evenings of dinner out while my mother worked late became bizarre opportunities to try on new identities in public. One time he was a history professor, dressed in a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, lecturing anyone who would listen on the Renaissance. Another time, he was a neurosurgeon grabbing a quick meal between operations. His characters ranged from Catholic priests to Hasidic rabbis, as varied as the chemicals in his brain must have been. My reactions ranged from mute horror to fast talking gotta-get-us-outta here quick liberator.

The black and white Philco television in our living room was suddenly replaced with three color tv’s, state-of-the-art stereo equipment and a tabletop full of unopened credit card bills. His love of flying took him suddenly to San Francisco, Hawaii, Chicago. He’d call from a pay phone to explain his whereabouts as if he were just across town. Frequently, he never left the airport bar, always enjoying the flight more than the destination.

At times, his adventures resulted in trouble with the law. Driving under the influence of whatever substance supplemented the unnatural force that drove him eventually cost him his license. Fist fights with unknown husbands over the harassment of unknown wives cost him several black eyes.

“Pray for forgiveness, pray for my soul,” he said one time when we made an unplanned stop at a church during mid mass. “Forgive me, for I know not what I do,” he slurred through alcohol breath. “You’re the only one who understands me, Di,” and he slid down the pew – asleep for the first time in three days.

My grandmother succeeded in getting him to the hospital. She signed the papers with one hand while her other hand entwined my fingers. It was not clear who was holding whom, or which way the much needed strength was flowing. After the detox from alcohol and stabilizing on the drug Lithium, Lou seemed more like he was before the manic-depressive episodes. We did not know it was the first of several hospitalizations, and many unsuccessful attempts at detox. It was the first of many visits to the blue corridors of a psychiatric hospital. Those visits were between all the kitchen table talks Lou and I had about past and future.

I was the only person who understood my Uncle Lou. I understood that the illness worked its way from the inside outward and that it wasn’t his fault.

Diane Funston writes poetry of nature and human nature. She co-founded a women’s poetry salon in San Diego, created a weekly poetry gathering in the high desert town of Tehachapi, CA and most recently has been the Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture Poet-in-Residence for the past two years. It is in this role she created Poetry Square, a monthly online venue that features poets from all over the world reading their work and discussing creative process. Diane has been published in Synkronicity, California Quarterly, Whirlwind, San Diego Poetry Annual, Summation, and quite a few other literary journals. Her first chapbook, “Over the Falls” was published this July 2022 from Foothills Publishing. She holds a B.A. degree in Literature and Writing from CSU San Marcos. Diane is also a visual artist in mosaic, wool felting, and collage. Her pieces have been in galleries in the Sacramento Valley. Diane has worked in the mental health field for years before retirement. She lives with PTSD from childhood trauma and is on the neurodiverse spectrum.