Early one Saturday morning in March 2009, I went into the family living room to find the front door wide open and my mom covered in snow. She had purposely burned her arm and had been rolling in the snow to put out the fire. It was exactly what our family needed to jump into action. My dad took my mom to the ER and called her older sisters in Michigan to let them know what had been happening the past month.
I had never heard of bipolar disorder before my mom was diagnosed in 2009. I was a full-time freshman in my second semester at a private university in Tulsa, living at home and working part-time at the local mall when her episodes started. My stay-at-home mom was the heart of the family, the one who took care of everyone before herself. But on Valentine’s Day 2009, that suddenly changed: I woke up to find that she wasn’t home. When she returned six hours later, she wouldn’t tell anyone where she had been. The next day she disappeared again—this time coming back with new cell phones for the whole family. My mom usually managed the family budget and paid the bills: financial spontaneity was not her thing. But instead of dwelling on the problem, my dad, my brother, and I decided to play with our new phones, silently agreeing to ignore my mom’s behavior.
That became impossible, as her behavior got progressively worse over the next few weeks. She continued to go missing, talked in a strange voice—a voice she said that was not her own but that of a higher being—broke things in the house, threw away clothes, family photos, my brother’s guitars, kitchenware. She became violent, fighting my brother and me as we tried to stop her from destroying the house. I spent my first year of college barely sleeping, my room barricaded with a dresser, fearful that my mom might break something in the house, or worse, hurt me. My emotions were as unstable as my mom’s behavior: I was angry for the crazy things she did or said, resentful when she would act normally and try to be my mom again, guilty for resenting her—this wasn’t easy for her either. So I’d dry my tears and put on a brave face before I walked into class every day. But I was tired mentally, emotionally, and physically.
It didn’t help that our family tactics were divided. While I eventually took on a “we need to do something now” attitude, my dad and my brother took some time to accept that something was really wrong with my mom. My brother started working more so that he wouldn’t have to come home, and my dad seemed to only work and sleep. It felt as if they were leaving me to deal with a lot my mom’s illness, so for a while, I resented them both. It took time for me to realize that they, too, were trying to cope with their grief.
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Different states have different procedures for getting patients institutionalized in mental clinics: in the state of Oklahoma, a person either has to 1) be a threat to themselves or others or 2) admit that they are mentally ill to be taken into inpatient care. Because my mother would not admit that she was sick, it took her burning herself that snowy Saturday morning for us to be able to get her institutionalized in an inpatient mental clinic. From there, the counseling sessions and court procedures began. I remember visiting my mom—it was like visiting a stranger. I missed her, but I was also scared of her.
When she returned from the institution that summer, I still had a mix of emotions—hurt, confusion, anger, and loss. I couldn’t deal with them, especially not at home. So my sophomore year, I transferred to Oklahoma State University and moved away from home. I think the change was really good for me and getting away from home helped me gain perspective. I began to open up more and be willing to share my story with other people. I joined a sorority when I got to Oklahoma State, and I remember one of the older girls talking during chapter about how her mom was bipolar. I ended up talking to her about my mom, and I found that we had so much in common. This led me to open up to a few of my other sorority sisters and even share my story with members of a student organization called “To Write Love on Her Arms.” I even ended up competing in a pageant my junior year and writing about my experience in a monologue I performed for the contest. I ended up winning the crown, but I won a greater victory that day: I had made the decision to share a painful part of my life with other people. I had exposed my scars, and I felt stronger, empowered and a little less hurt. Opening up about my pain paved the way for me to finally meet people who would understand—fellow college students who have bipolar parents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters.
It is has been a rebuilding process for all of us, but today my mom—and my family—are doing much better. I just graduated from school, and I can see the changes in myself—I am much stronger, much more compassionate for others. I have so much respect for my mom and what she’s been through. My dad and my brother are much more active and involved in the family. What had at first torn our family apart, brought us back together, stronger than ever.
These rough patches do not define who we are unless we let them. I will never downplay or hide what happened with my mom. It is a part of my story, but only a piece of it; I went through it, but it is not who I am. I will tell you who I am. I am a fighter, and I am a writer, determined to share her story to help others fight, too.
Though my mom is on medication that has stabilized her moods, the medical world has yet to find a cure for bipolar disorder. It is genetic, meaning that there is a chance for my brother and me—or even our children—to develop it, which is scary. But after going through this with my mom, I am hopeful—hopeful that you can not only learn to live with someone who has a mental illness, but also love them through it.
Photo Credits:
Young Girl Upset in Bed
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