Bipolar, My Sons and Me

My youngest son is a naturally trustworthy person. He is calm and kind and sweet. I'm not saying my first born is not kind and sweet but he's opposite of calm. People just flock to my younger child in a way I've never seen or experienced. Because of this, other kids will often share their family's secrets with him. Of course, he comes home and tells me but needs to remind me not to tell anyone. He certainly can not share this with his brother, who he calls "blabbermouth." But I'm telling you and for a good reason.

He recently came home with the story of how one of the kids in his class told him that his mother was in the hospital because she suffers from bipolar. My very first reaction was, "Did you tell him I have it?" because that's what it's like, having a mental illness, that is. It's not like most other diseases. Most diseases do not come with an inherit need to hide, with the exception of STD's, I suppose.

Instantly after, I asked my worry wort, "Does that make you worry about me going back?"  It was four years ago and he was five, his brother was seven. My older son remembers more but my younger son vaguely remembers being allowed to come see me. Normally they don't let kids visit but they made an exception because one of the new doctors had promised me that they could the day before but when my family arrived, they said no, I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until they let me go into a separate room, outside the ward, to visit for five minutes with an orderly right outside the door. (He gave me an extra five minutes and I will always be grateful.) My sons knew it was different from other hospital visits because he had seen me hospitalized for physical aliments, but their little minds couldn't quite grasp it then. But it was those ten precious minutes that changed all of our lives forever. I decided that I needed to get better, be better so I can have as many more minutes with my sons and husband as possible.

Six months ago, I decided to tell them about the bipolar. A specific song just made me do it. We were driving, it came on and my older son told me a bully from school loved the song so I told them what it was about. I made sure they knew that I took the medicine I needed to take everyday and I saw a doctor and therapist a lot and that I would be fine. The conversation was strange and they looked at me differently, like maybe I was going to turn into anything other than the mother I am. My husband was at first very angry and especially worried about blabbermouth but I have more faith in eldest son. I hate to say it, but I think shame will keep him quiet.

Did it hurt that they acted more reserved and anxious around me? Yes. Am I glad I told them? Yes. Because they can see that despite having a mental illness, anyone can still have a happy life. They can have a good job, a loving family and a great life, even with a healthy dose of chaos. With the proper treatment, internally and externally, you can even feel more mentally healthy than most. And frankly, at this point, now that I'm doing what I need to do, I am healthier than lots of people. Slowly but surely, they stopped acting differently around me altogether and we are thick as thieves once again.

And back to my younger son's friend and his confessions. Because I instructed him to never tell anyone,about me, he didn't share it with his friend. This sounds absolutely horrible but kids are mean enough. They don't need something major to make fun of him for and trust me, they would. Even if it would help another kid, I made sure he was not allowed to tell. It sucks but it just goes to show the immense shame that comes along with mental illness, especially bipolar. My own kids looked at me funny, never mind friends I've lost once I've told them. The few other mothers I told, suddenly stopped calling for play dates. Thank goodness my husband was more than understanding. My therapist calls it over-sharing guilt and that sounds about right.

But because I have bipolar and because I told my son, he is able to be a good friend to this little boy without over-sharing himself. Indirectly, I sure hope it does help this kid. And my son did not have any concerns at all about me going back into the hospital. I asked if he had concerns but I didn't ask why he didn't. I knew that because he has witnessed my mental stability, he knows that I am fine. But hearing about this poor boy and his poor mother and his poor family suffering during a time of year when mental illness likes to rear its ugly head for lots of people (it's not just the winter) it brings back many memories. Some awful and some pretty funny. It's the only way to get help sometimes and it's what helped me.

And while I did not give him permission to share my illness, I made sure to tell him to remind his friend that it's a good thing his mom is in the hospital. She is in the hospital because she wants to get better and I'm sure that his mom wants to get better for her children, just like I did mine.

Anonymous

Uneasy Conversations

It's never an easy conversation to have, to let someone know you have a mental illness. I often wonder, do I have a mental illness, am I living with a mental illness or do I suffer from a mental illness? And what will people think of me if I tell them? Or worse, how will they treat me? Will they treat me differently? Will they treat me like I'm CRAZY???

Because, contrary to popular belief, I don't feel that because someone has a mental illness, they are crazy. It's just something, another thing, I have in my life that I have to deal with. I deal with it on an everyday, pretty much every moment, basis.

There may be times when I have stress in my life that I handle it a certain way and immediately, in the back of my mind, I question if I'm getting sick. Maybe it's the way I react to something or if I'm being overly emotional about something. It sucks that I have to second guess my emotions and wonder if I'm getting manic.

Those around you make it difficult too. Either they know nothing about the subject and think you're harmful and don't want to let their kids play with yours or they are your loved ones, who think they can read all the signs and diagnose you as sick when, in reality, you may just be excited about something.

STIGMA. That's a powerful word. And it's so true. I wish I could live in a world where I could just randomly talk about having bipolar disorder and not be judged and to not have people compare me to psychopaths.

Do I sometimes get sick? Yes. But I'm responsible about it. I immediately tell my doctor, tell the people around me or if it comes down to it, go to the hospital. Not everyone with a mental illness is a psychopathic criminal.

I have 4 children who I love with all my heart. I would never, ever harm any of them or anyone else's. Yet, I can't tell other parents about my illness in fear that they won't let my children play with theirs. It also hurts, sometimes, when people think that, because they can't see my physical scars, it's just something you have to work harder to get through or that it's not even a real disease. When you manage it so well your loved ones sometimes forget you have it to begin with, when you speak without thinking or are moody or go from one extreme to the next, they get annoyed with you.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is, it's hard enough to have bipolar disorder and it sucks more having everyone else around you making you feel worse for having it.

-Anonymous