Fighting the demons
Bipolar young man has come 'a million miles'
"My name is Jacob Short and I am 19 years old. I come from a great family with a mom, dad, three sisters, three brothers, two brothers-in-law, five nieces and a dog, Murfy. We are a close family and do a lot together. I love to travel, camp, boat, water ski, and play basketball and softball. I do everything all 19-year-olds do ... and I am bipolar."
Today it is hard to imagine the dark days Jake Short has seen. The sadness in which he spent much of his young life seems far behind him. He is bright-eyed and articulate. He is engaged in his work and hopeful about the future.
But examine his history of mental illness, his attempts at suicide, his family's frenzied search for the perfect blend of medications to stave off terror, and it becomes clear Jake Short is the poster child for mental health treatment.
He also represents hope for thousands of young men and women in Utah fighting depression and the urge to do themselves in.
It's been a decadelong process, says his mother, Vicki Short.
"It is a miracle. This is a boy who couldn't go to school, and when he did he would hide under his desk and staple his fingers together," she said. "He's come a million miles."
Jake Short realized that horrible day that his brain wasn't wired like the next child's.
He remembers how scared he felt going to a baby-sitter that first time in his Sandy neighborhood. He didn't take off his coat. He didn't eat lunch. He didn't use the bathroom. He stood by the front window crying all day. Even as a toddler, he knew he was different.
At home, he did "weird" things, said his mother. He watched the same movie every day for a month. After watching "Back to the Future III," he dressed like a cowboy for days on end.
The youngest of six children at the time, Jake's behavior didn't raise any real concern for his parents. "We just thought he was the baby of the family," his mother said.
But in elementary school, his odd behavior intensified.
He hid under his desk. He bear-crawled around the classroom on his hands and feet. He froze when the teacher called on him. He sat alone on the grass at recess.
He says now his mind worked like the television section at Circuit City — a bunch of screens set on different channels, and all talking at once. He couldn't focus on one. He didn't hear strange voices but familiar ones. Sometimes his mom's words would rattle around in his head. Sometimes an innocuous phrase would get twisted into something bad.
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