On Common Ground

I was pushing my cart slowly through Joe's grocery store on Sunday night. I've started going there occasionally after we study on Sundays, mostly because his grocery store has edamame and mine does not.

I was contemplating something [I believe it had to do with black beans] when one of the classmates, one of the men we fondly refer to as "The Who," walked through the sliding doors. I'd never really had a conversation with him, and our relationship was--at this point--completely in my head, the same relationship I have with most of my classmates, that of constant observation leading to general hilarity. However, when he saw me, he waved and marched purposefully over. "I was reading your Facebook profile," he said, "and I saw that you're bipolar. I'm bipolar too."

I was taken aback, and my mind went on autopilot, asking the requisite questions. "When were you diagnosed," my mouth shot off. "What do you take?" We compared stories for a minute or two, then went along with our shopping. I fought the urge to leave everything behind, to contact Joe immediately.

After I finished, I drove the 30 seconds back to his house. In his foyer, we talked for thirty minutes about the implications of this new development. We yelled at each other a lot, me draped across the bottom few stairs, him peeking around a wall. He helped me process the information, and told me that I should invite The Who for coffee or a meal. At first I balked; despite this one huge commonality, I argued, we don't have that much in common. But the more I thought about it, and the more Joe watered the seed he had planted in my head, the more I liked it. One of the best things about Joe is that--as someone who is outside of my head--he is often one step ahead of me in knowing that something is a good idea. Whereas I have to undo all of the misgivings and personal issues with something, he can say, "You know what? This will help." I have learned to trust him implicitly with matters like this one.

So I took the necessary steps, and I asked The Who if he wanted to do lunch. As plans solidified, I realized I was excited about it. I realized that I still have many questions about my own illness. I've learned much about the uniqueness of the experience of bipolar disorder, and I was eager to hear about it in someone who is less like me than any other bipolar person I know.

So, we met over the lunches we packed. Although the first minute or so felt awkward, we soon eased into constant conversation, shared experience. We talked about what's hard about medical school, about our medicines [the good and the bad]. One commonality made it so much easier to talk about everything else, things like family, therapists [he has seen mine once or twice and hated her: we talked about how important it is for personalities to meld], relationships, even religion. He's been diagnosed for longer than me, and he had some insightful things to say about how your thinking about the illness can progress. He agreed with me that you have to have a sense of humor about things, that you have to find it funny. We talked about things that made us laugh; we talked about hard things, the things that make you somber.

All in all, it was a more wonderful experience than I could have imagined. In all of my wildest ruminations, I couldn't have expected the reality of that hour, the easiness that comes when you meet on common ground.