Coming Home: A Daughter's Perspective on Bipolar Disorder

*** From 2005***

“Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling…come home.” As the soft chords gently sounded from the piano, tears pooled at the corners of my eyes. A peace settled over me as I sat enraptured by music I once thought extinct; it was the music of my mother’s heart – her life song.

The summer of 2005 was perhaps the worst experience I have endured. I was a normal sixteen year old managing an adult life, an adult load. The most traumatizing experience came in the form of my mentor, best friend, and mother. She was diagnosed a few years earlier as bipolar, but this past year, she peaked.

Some of the earliest memories of my mother include her laughter as she played and sang with me, taking me here and there, scratching my back, brushing and braiding my tangled hair. Now, I can’t remember her laugh. In my memories now, I can’t see light in her eyes; it’s been extinguished like a candle flame. That summer, my mom merely existed: she never lived.

There are movies that portray mental hospitals. The inhabitants walk around like zombies. That summer, I was in the movies. For the second time in six months, my mother was hospitalized. I hated the place, my prison from which I could not escape. Ironically, my prison was her haven, her shelter from the burdens of life, her escape from life.

I never thought a person could transform so drastically, but she did. Eventually, she returned home, but it was not her. There are no words to vividly describe her state. My mother, who could once remember songs at a snap, could no longer remember what she ate five minutes ago. My mother, with the fingers of an angel that could transform a silent piano into a harmonious choir of chords, struggled to remember the notes that had been instilled in her since childhood. She was my mother, yet she was a stranger. I could not penetrate her cold empty shell – no one could. Together we were alone.

Just smile and nod became my motto; I too now wore a facade. I swore to myself over and over that if I heard one more person ask, “How is your mom doing?” or “How’s everything going?” or “How are you?” I would explode, burning in anger. The questions were harmless but numerous. I just wanted them to end; they were constant reminders of what I no longer had.

I hurt, and at times I could feel my heart bleed great drops of anguished grief. Soon my grief turned to agonizing. I wanted her whole; I needed her whole. But whole she did not become; in fact, she worsened, and as she declined, so did I. It’s a good thing God is faithful and patient, for that summer, I became a David, arguing with God one moment and pleading with Him the next. There wasn’t a night that summer that my pillow went unsoaked, and yet no one but God ever knew.

While at night, I wept, during the day, I became mother and sitter. My mother had previously accepted a job caring for a child with William Syndrome (for our purpose, she will be called Alice). My mom was not capable of fixing her own food; needless to say, she could not take care of a special needs child. So each morning when my dad went to work, I assumed the role of caretaker, caretaker of my mom as well as Alice. Alice was unique; she was enthusiastic and energetic one moment and then lethargic the next. A junior high student with the understanding and comprehension of a first grader, it was necessary to keep an eye on her while giving her freedom. “I want to take a nap now,” she would tell me, and I could only reply,

“Your grandmother says you can’t take naps anymore.”

“Yes I can, only a short one.” And her sweet innocent face would plead with me. Keeping her occupied and entertained was challenging, but I could handle it; I had to handle it. I did what was needed because I was the dependable one.

To say home life was not paradise is an understatement, but there were two bright rays in my life every week. Their names were Susan and Peter. They, too, were handicapped, confined physically and verbally, but definitely not mentally. Some might find it strange to find that two handicapped adults were my light, but they were. Susan and Peter were my peace, my regularity. I could always count on a smile and a silent but exuberant laugh.

Unfortunately, not even those two rays could keep my heart and mind from breaking. I listened to the news, stunned. “Your mom will need electric shock treatments three times a week for six weeks.” I hated doctors; my mom was already a living pharmacy and now this. With my mom’s treatments, she was not able to eat the mornings of her “visits”. Unfortunately, she could not remember that she even had treatments, so her memories and schedule became my own. I organized her bags so I could store and find what she needed when she needed it; I shared the responsibility of driving her to her appointments. She was my mother and I loved her with all my heart; I would do anything if it would help.

My world was increasingly slipping out of my control; I was spiraling headfirst into my own pit of depression, but God was faithful. The week of my mom’s first treatment, He placed me among new friends from the All State Texas Baptist Band. They were virtually strangers, but we were so close. There I was encouraged and supported.

The road was long, but eventually I began to heal. I still cared for my mom, Alice, and my two sun rays, but I could manage it easier; the burden became lighter. With the support of my new friends, I was able to commence school with more hope, and even though the doctor’s report said, “There is nothing more I can do,” I could handle it, not because I had to, but because God had given me strength.

During this time, several quotes and song lyrics frequently visited my thoughts like Christmas carolers spreading the Christmas cheer. In the song “Vincent” the words perfectly described my mother when it said, “The world was not meant for one as beautiful as you.” There’s a tragic beauty in these words that sang to my heart, but the song that really cheered me is “Farther Along”. I can still hear it now. Three generations of Robinsons singing a prayer to the Lord to bless his children and hear their pleas of desperation. “Farther along,” we sang, “we’ll know all about it. Farther along we’ll understand why. Cheer up, my mother, live in the sunshine. We’ll understand it all by and by.” As grandfather, mother, and daughter sang, it was like God’s love enveloped us in his promise.

The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder. ~Virginia Woolf. This quote never made more sense until one day the doctor’s report was drowned by the soft sweet strains flowing from the once-silent piano. “Jesus is calling…come home, come home.” As angel’s hands strummed the smooth ivory keys, for the first time in months, I was home.