Bipolar

My sister and I hadn't been very close growing up. But then I turned 15, and my parents decided to send me to live with my sister and her husband during summer vacations. While her husband worked, we'd gone to beaches, thrift shopped, went for long walks, and went to local community events. She wasn't the same sad or mad sister I'd remembered from my childhood, but a whimsical one, with each day feeling magical. She was energetic, creative, vibrant, and funny.

However, what none of us were aware of, was that there was something brewing underneath, an illness that had mostly lay dormant until now. My sister had always been creative, but now she found herself compulsively painting, writing, decorating and doing crafts for days on end, while getting very little sleep, and crashing afterwards. She couldn't understand what was happening to her, so she sought help, and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and put on Lithium. It wasn't long after being diagnosed herself, that she realized Mom also carried the same illness.

When I was young, my Mom would tell me funny stories about her grandmother, who she'd loved dearly. She'd make up silly stories, and point at things in the trees that no one else could see. "Oh, look at the monkeys," her grandmother once said as everyone laughed. Now I often wonder if she too had been plagued with the same disorder as my mom and sister, having lived in a time when the only word used for mental illness was crazy.

The thing people don't realize, is that bipolar not only brings magic to the life of the person that has it, but to those around them. When my Mom was at the height of her creativity, she was like a shining star on a dark night. She sung, she painted, she went to the theatre, she took beautiful photographs, and the list went on and on. But then she'd become manic, and find herself in the basement for several days, recording one Les Misérables song after another on the karaoke machine. "I just can't seem to get this song right," she'd say, rewinding the tape, looking completely frazzled. She stayed up till the wee hours of the morning obsessing over everything, from songs she sung, photographs she took, to water colours she'd painted, fixing things that didn't need fixing.

She was like a mad scientist who didn't sleep and barely ate, as her eyes became red and dark circles formed under them. I was scared of this version of my mother, as I navigated her moods, knowing the crash was about to come. And when it did, she'd start crying uncontrollably, as dark thoughts plagued her mind. Her ritual during this time was always the same; get into her pajamas, roll the metal blinds over her bedroom windows, roll towels under her door, place an eye mask over her eyes, stuff waxy earplugs the colour of cotton candy into her ears, and bury herself under the covers for days.

It was hard going from living with a bright star, to suddenly living with a ghost, only catching glimpses of her as she stepped out for a washroom break or glass of water. This is the rollercoaster you're constantly on when living with someone who's bipolar. You relish in their presence when its safe, you learn to stay away when its not, and you learn to try to make them happy at all costs, in hopes it takes longer for the darkness to return next time.

But then you fail in some way; you say something wrong, accidentally hurt their feelings, and they're back in bed, with you fully aware you're the one who put them there. The immense guilt of that rides on your shoulders each day, and you vow to do better next time. That's the constant cycle you're on, and so you put your own needs aside, you learn that their happiness is more important than your own, and you learn to read them so incredibly well, that many times you can predict their behaviour before they can. And, you grow up much faster than you should, as you hear people around you say, "Wow, you're so mature for your age."

Lithium fortunately worked for my sister, but sadly it hadn't been enough for my mother, who took her life only a couple of years after her diagnosis. I've been told by my sister and others who battle the same illness, that bipolar is both a blessing and a curse. It give you wings, but it also makes you fall so incredibly hard if not managed. So, many allow their wings to be clipped just enough to not hurt themselves, by way of medication.

I wanted to believe that my sister would continue to remain healthy, that her wings would remain clipped, and that together we'd forge ahead in a world without husbands and religion. But something was stirring deep within her, and it was going to change everything...and it was going to break my heart.