Examining Fear

Nov. 4, 2018

Today I dug up an old post from six years ago. Looking back, I still identify with a lot of it, but there are a couple of key differences. First, I claimed that "I am speaking out for all other parents..." yet, at that time, I was still writing blog posts anonymously fearing the stigma. Eventually, I would find the courage to overcome my anonymity. And second, in this post, I am really fearful. I remember, six years ago my son was so unpredictable. He'd already shown that he was potentially dangerous. I lived in a constant state of fear. At the time, he had not yet been arrested, but his erratic behavior was increasing and his arrest was imminent. Of course, I did not know that then.

But looking back, perhaps the fear I expressed here is less about him being dangerous and more about the uncertainty I felt. Not knowing what might happen terrified me. Today, six years later, I cannot say that my son's situation has completely stabilized. But in a way, I think I have. My stability comes from gradually accepting the uncertainty of serious mental illness, not only his illness but mine. That fear came from not knowing. My evolving courage comes from accepting the fact I may never know.

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Sometime in early 2013


If my twenty-year-old son knew I was writing this, I'm not sure what he'd do. Bipolar disorder can be a dangerous thing when it goes untreated. I am a mother who is afraid of her son, but I am speaking out for all the other parents out there who fear their own children.

First, you should know something about me. I have bipolar II. I was diagnosed in 2011, a year after my world crumbled. A year after my older son walked out my door. With a right-for-now cocktail of medications plus a wonderful therapist, I function well day to day. My colleagues would never guess that I have bipolar II. They probably attribute my high spirited antics to being a creative teacher. They don't know there is electricity tingling underneath my skin when I'm hypomanic. And when the melancholy settles in, I rely on my finest acting skills at work and my peers are none the wiser. From the outside, I seem just fine. But on the inside, I struggle.

Thanks to a proper diagnosis and treatment I manage my life better now than I ever did before. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my older son. Though his diagnosis came over two years ago, he has refused any treatment. Instead, he self-medicates with drugs and alcohol. He dropped out of college. Twice. And he's usually unemployed. He is trapped by his own apathy and sees no way out. And I am powerless to help him.

His story is my story and I want to share it with you. His story, my story is one of heartache and tragedy, broken promises and last chances. But it is also a story of hope. I am still hopeful that he will get help for himself. I am still hopeful that his life will turn around. I am still hopeful that he will become whole again. I am his mother and I will always love him. But because I fear him, for now, I will have to love him from a safe distance.

This post was originally used as a blogger biography on http://ibpf.org/blog/stillhopefulmom.

Hypomania: The Catalog Sweater That Doesn't Quite Fit

February 16, 2013

Those of us who have battled Bipolar II long enough know the signs of hypomania. And since a hypomanic episode happens so rarely compared with depression, when one does occur, it feels like receiving a beautifully gift-wrapped present. We unwrap it with frenzied anticipation, knowing the gift comes with an expiration date. Just what we've hoped for, just what we've wanted, but it may not be exactly what we need, like a sweater ordered from a catalog that doesn't fit quite right. We love the looks and how it feels, but it just doesn't match the rest of our emotional wardrobe. The gift of hypomania, enjoyed while it lasts, ultimately must be returned.

For me, the gift of hypomania feels like electricity fluttering through me, like an endless tickle with a feather just below the surface of my skin. When hypomanic, I have no desire for sleep or food. My eyes are opened wider and my senses feel heightened. Remarkably jovial and talkative, talkative to the point of interrupting sometimes, I feel like I need to comment on everything. Those closest to me say they like me hypomanic, but they are more than ready for me to calm down. Hypomania creates a caricature of myself. Invincible. Bigger than life.

One benefit of hypomania for me is productivity. Once my boundless energy is bridled, I can tackle just about any project. At work, my desk is organized, papers are filed, and exciting new lessons are developed. I never slow down and neither do my students. For middle schoolers, a hypomanic teacher is quite a treat. I talk a mile a minute, cracking jokes and pacing about the room, and we bounce from one activity to the next. Not many papers get graded, and tangential thoughts may invade my lessons, but ultimately, my hypomania, in small doses, benefits my students. Back to School Parent Night, while hypomanic, is a bit dangerous, however. One year, while flying high, I gave a multimedia presentation to parents about my course. I hoped the buzz I was feeling translated to teacher enthusiasm rather than wild-eyed crazy. Luckily, there was no fall out from that evening. No parent complaints, but I realize now that there could have been.

At home, my productivity may take the form of organizing every closet in the house, or cleaning out all of the kitchen cabinets. My family finds this helpful yet annoying, since I see no reason why everyone can't unload all of their clothes from their dressers and get organized too. My hypomania once even inspired me to paint my office. Now that was a mistake. Not only did I choose a yellow the shade of an egg yolk, I painted with such unfocused energy and lack of precision that once completed, it looked as though the sun crashed into the corner of my house and splattered all over my office walls. Needless to say, I had to hire my ex-husband to come and repaint it. Talk about humiliating.

One of the most prominent symptoms of my hypomania is this incredible urge to create something and follow it through to completion to the exclusion of anything else. For example, I may sit at the piano for hours composing a song, and until I am satisfied that it's finished, I will not get up unless I am forced to by the demands of family or work. Even then, while begrudgingly meeting my commitments, I feel a magnetic force pulling me back to the piano. It takes all my strength to fight it. Confession: there have been days where I have gone to work and instead of going straight to my classroom to prepare for the day, I've snuck into the music room and spent my half hour prep time playing the piano before the music teacher arrives. Being creative becomes my primary focus. Then, on those same music mania days, I will return to the music room during my free period and see if the piano is available. Again, I'll play until I have to return to my own class.

Being hypomanic has its benefits but it certainly has its downsides too. The biggest negative hypomania brings is the dread of its inevitable end. We know it won't last forever, but we want it to. We want to feel that electric energy and invincibility just one day more. The dark days of depression glare us in the face too often. We don't want to look at them again. We are willing to risk just about anything to keep that hypomanic euphoria, even if our symptoms lead us to do dangerous or careless things like shop too much or drive distracted or worse. We crave that sense of elation so much we are willing to risk it. Nothing bad will happen to us, right? We are invincible!

But eventually, we know the gift of hypomania must be put back into the box and returned and our days must turn back to the darkness that is depression. We'll wait patiently for the next gift-wrapped package of hypomania, while flipping through the catalog and dreaming of that perfect sweater.

(originally posted February 11, 2013 at internationalbipolarfoundation.org.)

I Miss the Mountains--Diana Days

January 5, 2013

I'm into musicals.  My favorite one is Next to Normal.  I've seen it five times. It's about a bipolar woman named Diana.  Here are a few lines of a song she sings as she's throwing out all of her medications...

...But I miss the mountains
I miss the dizzy heights
All the manic magic days
And the dark depressing nights
I miss the mountains
I miss the highs and lows
All the climbing, all the falling
All the while the wild wind blows
Stinging you with snow
And soaking you with rain
I miss the mountains
I miss the pain......I miss my life


I feel like Diana--I miss the mountains, but the mountains are rare for me.  I'm more a valley girl (like, totally).  Since I have bipolar II instead of bipolar I, my dips into darkness are far more frequent than my sky high euphoria.  My doctor says on average, someone like me is depressed 39 times for every one hypomanic episode.

I cycle quickly from feeling hyper and happy for a while to feeling low and lethargic later.  I'm a teacher, so my hyper attitude tends to channel into the classroom pretty naturally even if I fall flat about 3:00.  I guess I'm lucky that way.  I'm what my doctor calls "high functioning".  Thankfully my job allows me to focus my high energy moments into creativity and productivity.  And I'm wickedly good at acting fine at work even when I'm very depressed.  I just put on this performance for the work day and then come unglued when I come home.  This is another trait I'm told is typical of a bipolar II person... oh, and I'm lucky that my meds work...usually.

I've only had one really true hypomanic episode that concerned my psychiatrist enough to up my meds plus give me one dose of Depakote just in case.  I never had to take the Depakote, but I was supposed to call him if I got any more manic and this medicine was supposed to put an end to it.

CONFESSION:  I liked it.  The mania--or "hypomania" to be exact.  I liked that frenzied feeling of electricity lighting up underneath my skin.  It was like Diana says about dizzy heights on mountains.  I liked the jazzed up feeling like I could do anything.  I didn't need sleep.  I didn't need food.  I just played the piano.  I played and played composing more music than I had since I changed from music major to education back in college.

Now, I've had several near episodes, teetering between being spunky and being downright out of control.  These times are very productive for me.  I write a lot of music and I talk a lot.  A lot.  My friends all try to be patient but I know I'm annoying when I interrupt them.  My mind is just flying a mile a minute and I want to share share share.

My doctors (therapist and psychiatrist) both tell me that I'm a very happy hypomanic.  I suppose that's a compliment?  But here's the thing.  It's been a year since that hypomanic episode and I think I'm due for another one.  I've battled depression enough.  I'm taking a healthy cocktail of medications that are supposed to keep me on a more even keel.  If I complain that I'm depressed, I just get a higher dose of the antidepressant that makes me eat the house.  I don't want that.

I want...another hypomanic episode.  I want some "manic magic days".  Of course, I don't want to be so out of control I drive over our cat (that's in the musical), but I wouldn't mind the electricity under my skin again.  Just for a while.

I miss the mountains.

Healing New Year

January 3, 2013

Why is it we say, "Happy New Year" anyway?  Is it because we're so glad the previous year is over?  Or is it because we are hoping the upcoming year is better than the last?  

What if each New Year is simply an annual reminder of mistakes and regrets?  

What if hearing "Happy New Year" feels like a punch in the gut?

Two years and four days ago, my older son walked out my door and I was powerless to stop him.  He was eighteen years old and hell-bent on proving that there was nothing wrong with him--that he was just fine.  That was December 31, 2010.  

You'd think I'd be healing by now.  You'd think.  But this week has been rougher than I expected.  After two years, I still haven't forgiven myself for letting him go out the door.  I haven't forgiven myself and yet I know in my heart that I did everything I could have done.  He made the choice to leave.  He made the choice to sofa-hop from friend's house to friend's house, eventually ending up on the streets before begrudgingly moving in with his father where he still lives today. Or at least that's where his belongings are.  He may or may not end up there come nightfall.  He makes those choices everyday.  Yes, my son is still out there.  He's lost.  He's depressed.  And so am I.

Two years and four days.

"Happy New Year"?  No, I won't be so ambitious.  How about "Healing New Year"?  

So Healing New Year to you, dear reader.  May your 2013 bring you peace.