Family Dynamics

My dear bipolar friends,

We all know that once we are well, some members of our families are looking for signs of a relapse. Even if we have been healthy for years.

My husband's family gathers frequently. They have seen me laughing, debating, listening. That old ghost, Psychotic Lisa, has long been in the distant past. On one hot summer day, my sister-in-law asked if we would take her youngest two kids in the event she and her husband died. As I was about to answer, she jumped in with, "So, you haven't had any--you know." I'd been going on walks with her forever. I've listened to her problems, giving heartfelt, wise advise. How could she think I might be dancing with the nut cases (of which I was admittedly once a group member)? She had no evidence.

As I nursed my hurt feelings, I told her nothing had happened. Later, I realized she was contemplating her own death, the pain of imagining her children with a mother who wouldn't know how to love her babies in the special way only she could. It wasn't about me being bipolar, it was about her trying to find a mother who appeared to be good enough.

My brother has struggled with having a sister who'd been diagnosed manic depressive. The genetic aspect of the illness is quite scary to him. He admitted to me about his fear of "catching" the disorder. The urge to make a sarcastic comment was strong. Instead, I made some understanding remarks, but the moment stayed with me. It felt like a betrayal. I hadn't hurt anyone when I'd been sick; I simply acted oddly in a highly original manner. My brother's thoughts originate in fear, and perhaps a part of me worries I'll get sick again. No one wants a mental illness. Can you see yourself praying for an onslaught of delusion, destructive sex, blind spending?

I've even had an incident with my own children who are old enough to know better. My son and daughter were too young to remember any of my antics. I've told them plenty of true stories, prompting my son to urge me to write it down. We laugh about the past. They also grew up being told tall tales. My daughter, just on the cusp of discerning Mommy's bull from the truth, had to figure out whether or not I was her nanny.

I was in DC visiting my sister. We went to a museum where my sister read every single plaque. In order to maintain my sanity, I texted my kids that I'd licked a painting and a chip came off on my tongue. As I waited for their response, I laughed and laughed. My son texted back that I needed to rinse my mouth, avoid the guard, and get the heck out of the building. They believed me! I had taken them to numerous museums when they were young. Never had I attempted to put my mouth near a display.

But no. In their mind is a picture of Sick Mommy, the mommy they can only recall through stories, not experiences.

Perhaps I will be snapshot in the minds of my family, a polaroid where I am walking the streets at night, trying to catch Republicans in the campus library. But for me, I will carry a digital image of me laughing, enjoying my own Lisa Preston brand of humor. I'll let the rest of them figure out who I really am.