I Can't Hear You, I'm So Sick

My dear bipolar friends,

In another life, I was a teacher for six years. The last year I was an art teacher. People low on the seniority list got moved around a lot. I loved art and going to museums, but had no talent. My students smelled my ineptitude rather quickly.

One day I was doing a Van Gogh project and I began reading a biography I'd only previously skimmed. The further I got into the book, the more I started to put the pieces together. Alcoholic, check. Violent rants balanced by deep depressive episodes. Check and check. In a musty classroom, second graders spread at my feet, I realized Vincent Van Gogh was my brother in mental illness.

I approached teaching the way I did motherhood--with an honesty that would make some adults uncomfortable. How many children went home to mentally ill parents? aunts and uncles? Who explained the strange behavior? This was an opportunity I'd never had with my job: I could surreptiously explain my biochemical tendencies while illuminating the life of Mr. Van Gogh.

The kids wanted to know how someone could get so sad that they'd kill themselves. They failed to understand someone could get to a place so dark they wouldn't want to come back to the sun, trees, and a McDonald's Happy Meal. They have a point, don't they?