I’d left the office, my eyes swollen from crying. The wind whipped me in the face, and I drew a quick breath in before trying to regain my composure and figure out my next move. Desperately, I wanted to sit in my car and cry. I wanted to go home, and curl up into a ball. I knew none of this was what I would do, but it didn’t stop me from wanting. Wiping my eyes, and taking a couple deep breaths, I pulled out from my doctor’s office, and headed home.
Image Credit to Sacks08
Bi-Polar Depression.
Another label. Another description for what goes on in my head. Another piece of information to digest. Another pill to swallow, both literally and figuratively. In time, the sting of the diagnosis would wear off, and it would be just like all the other words used to describe my mental health: post traumatic, stress, anxiety, disorder, depression, mood swings, manic.
Where did this one come from though?
As I reflected internally on our own family history with mental health, I knew I would struggle to come up with the correct information. I knew that I may not get honest answers from my family, and then I knew, that time was not on my side, as mental health issues weren’t well documented in the generations before mine. Sure, the abuse in our family is known, but talking about our issues, the ones in our bodies? It’s just not something we do. Still, I knew bi-polar was generally, if not entirely genetic.
It wasn’t until the next morning, as I sat at the kitchen table reading the instructions for my new medication, that it clicked.
“Kiddo”, I muttered out loud to no one in particular. Grabbing my coffee, I ran to the computer, and began googling the symptoms in children. Website after website pulled up, sighing with each symptom, each one matching The Kiddo’s behavior, or at least the behavior that had been described to me. It was uncanny, it was eery, and it all made me want to feel sick.
My mind moved to the medications I was taking, when I realized he was taking one too. My heart sank. If someone with bi-polar is on the wrong medication it can have terrible implications. I knew I’d spent the last year playing around with dosages, and even actual meds; We weren’t even sure if we had it right this time. It’s a process of talking about how you feel, knowing how you feel and getting feedback from those closest to you. The medication he is on, maybe, could be messing with this disorder even more.
I sighed. What was I supposed to do? Did I reach out to them and tell them? Did I do my part as The Kiddo’s mother to say, “Look,you have to know this. You have to know this because you likely have it all wrong.” Of course, I’m not a doctor. Of course I’m not his acting parent, but I knew. I just know. They have it all wrong.
Gathering my courage took all day. I edited the email. I spoke with my mom who confirmed that we’ve had issues in our family, though some were undocumented. I pressed send, and I waited.
Waited for what? I don’t know. A thank you? A note that showed appreciation for honesty? Anything?
This was almost a month ago. My message has been read. It has not been responded to and I suspect, The Kiddo will remain with the diagnosis he has because it works for them. My assumptions are just that, but given our history, I feel confident in saying the first time he’ll hear about this will be when I tell him later in life. After he’s struggled through adolescence. Maybe after he’s struggled through marriages, jobs or even more. That’s if I get the chance to talk to him about it, because, untreated bi-polar is completely dangerous to the person.
I should know. I went years without proper treatment, swinging in and out of my moods, and feelings. I can’t tell you how close I’ve almost come to that Edge. Yet, I had support, resources, and someone who could say, “There is nothing wrong with you; It’s something that just needs a little push”. Will he have that? Or will they be content to tell him, as they did before, that his brain is just different than everyone else’s. Because, to them, I’m just the demanding birthmother who should have no opinion, especially if it varies from theirs.
Except, this isn’t an opinion. It’s a medical piece, and it’s one that fits for their description of The Kiddo.
I just hope they’ll be the parents I thought they were when I chose them. For The Kiddo’s sake.
