between the broken places

19^th Century French Poet Charles Baudelaire once said,

“There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.”

11 years ago, the universe and bipolar disorder converged in such a way that awareness of my illness was unavoidable.  The rapid cycle of depression, mania and depression again took place very publicly at work.  It’s hard to dismiss hiding under my desk and banging my head against the wall as just another typical bad day.  I worked in the accounting department of a large company in Alexandria, Virginia.  I managed the corporate credit cards of 4 offices – that’s a lot of people trusting me to pay their expense reports.  Ultimately this meant that almost everyone witnessed my meltdown.

But here’s the thing – once I was diagnosed it never occurred to me to keep the information private.  People asked and I answered, truthfully.  It seems being surrounded by the creative energy of authors, artists and musicians was to my benefit – they simply saw bipolar disorder as par for the creative course. Where I had once been known at work as Research Girl, I was forever researching their purchases – I had become known affectionately as Bipolar Chick.

The awareness and acceptance of my friends and co-workers made my recovery an easier task because I didn’t go through it alone.  I spoke openly and frequently about my illness – with anyone who would listen, especially my young daughters.

My family’s openness and many questions expanded not only their awareness of mental illness but also my own.  I quickly became an expert in my triggers, my needs and my maintained recovery.

When my then 12 year-old daughter became depressed and began cutting after being treated for cancer, her knowledge of the hereditary nature of mental illness gave her the courage to ask for help.  Managing my illness provided my husband and me the skills to assist her doctor’s in her recovery.  It also equipped us with the awareness of when I needed to step away for self preservation.

There is no doubt that my mental illness affected our children.

In 2009 our middle daughter, Jackie, graduated with a bachelor’s in Psychology – apparently I had proven an interesting case study.  Now 23 she volunteers with NAMI in her home state of NJ.

I’m proud to say that Kate, our brave cancer survivor is now 20 and healthy both physically and mentally.  She’s a junior in college pursuing a degree in culinary arts. She specializes in baking and pastries.

Over the years I’ve helped many friends seek the mental health assistance that they needed, some were diagnosed with a mental illness – some had situational issues to manage but all were comfortable coming to me for my thoughts and information.

In 2009, I have left the corporate world of finance and became a certified life and wellness coach.  I work with many people, some who suffer with mental illness some who do not.  I share my experiences and the tools that I have learned in an effort to help them find their own path towards awareness and recovery.

Helen Keller once said, “Walking in the dark with a friend, is better than walking alone in the light.”

As for my nickname, Bipolar Chick has evolved into my way of owning my illness. It makes me feel strong and not a victim of heredity or circumstance.  It has become no different than calling myself a red head or a writer or an advocate.  I wear the name proudly.

In closing, I’d like to share a poem written by my daughter Kate when she was 13.

Dear Mom:

In all these short years I’ve lived – We’ve gone through many things

Things we many not speak of – Things we did enjoy

Days when we both thought we’d break – Bright memories that we share

All those time I cried – You were always there

No one can replace you – No one can come close

All the help you’ve given me – I treasure you the most.

My uncle is dying. Early last summer we found out that cancer had once again infiltrated our family. I called him when I heard the news, he was surprised – I hadn’t spoken to him over the phone in over 10 years – I had seen him in that time. He told me his diagnosis and he remained positive but I already knew what stage 3b lung cancer meant and I knew in my heart that he would not survive the onslaught he was about to go through. I wasn’t trying to be negative – it was just something that I knew; I did not share that news with anyone but my husband.

My uncle’s impending battle arrived on the heels of my mother’s 12 month battle to keep her partner and my grandmother and grandfather alive or at least comfortable. Joe, mom’s partner of 22 years passes in January 2009; my grandfather passed the following May. My grandmother, a tough old broad, is hanging in – though I can’t imagine what it must be like to watch her youngest slowly precede her in death. I have stayed mostly out of the fray of emotions during my uncle’s illness. I live too far away to “run up” to visit and several surgeries of my own have kept me never straying too far from my bed.

A prolonged illness and imminent death is not easy for most people. Unfortunately, for me it is also a trigger for depression, so I stay as removed from it as possible – especially when cancer is involved. My step-father died after losing his battle with lymphoma. My relationship with him is the stuff of many more posts – suffice it to say that his death laid the path to my eventual diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

Since that time, I have lost others – all the while maintaining my distance. Honestly, the closest I’ve been to death was 19 months ago when my beloved dog, Fox, had to be helped on his way to the otherside – he had bone and lung cancer. I sobbed, my husband sobbed, I sobbed harder – that pain was pure and uncomplicated by years of a less than perfect relationship. When Fox died, with my hands on his face and his eyes locked on mine, my heart stopped beating for a while as my pain and sadness flowed freely.

When a family member dies it’s never uncomplicated and that’s the part that sets off my triggers. In my head there is some weird struggle over who is more hurt by the loss – it’s embarrassing to even admit. Because I knew my uncle would not survive his illness, I tried to be there instead for my cousins, my mom and my grandmother. I send him cards to let him know that I’m thinking of him but I don’t call – I don’t want to be in the way. I pray that he crosses over quickly each time I’m given a report of his terrible pain. I search for things to say as I listen to my mother cry over the phone. I discuss travel arrangements for the funeral that is to come and I send facebook messages of love to family and friends – all the while keeping my distance.

My mother bridged the distance today with on brief comment and now I can’t sleep as I try to reel in the complicated years of relationships that revolve around my mother. She called me to tell of her weekend with my sister at my uncle’s house in Connecticut. She told of his physical pain, his wife’s physical and emotional pain and the sheer exhaustion of his oldest son who has taken leave to help out. I asked her if she had told her brother that it was okay to go – she said she had and started to cry. And then I asked her if she understood why I was not having the hard time that she was having – stupid, door opening question.

She said she knew that he and I weren’t that close. I reminded her that as the eldest niece, I’d actually known and loved him 15 years longer than his own kids.

Well, she knew that I had been angry with him. Yes, when I was in my late teens he admonished my mother (his big sister) for letting her kids be out of control- so; yes, I had been angry with him almost 30 years ago because he’d hurt her feelings. Oh, yeah there was that comment he made when he and I were both going through a divorce and he eluded to the fact that I was not a good mother – just like his soon to be ex-wife (and my favorite aunt) – that had been 16 years ago.

Mom went on to say a few other things and we finally just said goodbye.
What I wanted to remind her was that my beloved Uncle Bob is only 17 years older than me – hardly old enough to be my parent. That during the first year of my life, she and I lived with my grandparents while my uncle who was a senior in high school. I wanted to say that he is the only family member that I resemble, that he and Aunt Pat made me their first child’s godmother, that they were my sponsors at Confirmation and that I was the first of my generation to love him and that losing him will hurt me in ways that no one else will understand.

Of course as I write this I realize that my brain is twisting my thoughts, creating anger where there is only sorrow and a distinct need to not feel it. My Uncle Bob’s death will touch many people including four generations of our family. With any luck my twisty brain will stay home and only my heart will show up to comfort and be comforted when his time has come to pass.