My husband is a good father. Let me just say that right off the bat. He loves his children, has supported and protected them, played with them, and comforted them throughout our 26 year journey together as parents. Even after his diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and 90% divorce rate, he’s managed to never let our kids doubt that he has their backs and loves them unconditionally.
Bipolar, with its classic ups and downs, one would think, must be even more bewildering and frustrating to children than it is to the spouse. Before his diagnosis, and even for years after, as we struggled to find the right combination of meds, there were nights full of giddy plans and days spent in bed. Promises made to go to the playground, ride bikes, and go swimming in the throes of hypomania, often dissolved overnight into excuses, lethargy and a blanket of depression. My kids grew up with this though, they didn’t know anything different. They knew his moods so well, that my daughter could tell in one word if he was “up or down.” He called her “apple-blossom” when he was up, and “chick” when he was down. His tone too, would give it away, lilting and quick when up, gloomy and slow when down, so that even “Hi” on the phone gave it away. Our own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or the kid friendly version of Tigger/Eeyore.
This is not to say that he never did anything with them. Many, many times, he fought off the demon of anxiety and depression’s oppression, to fulfill his promises to them. He took them to the circus, parades, and amusement parks, many times without me as I have worked every other weekend since I was 16. These public outings for him left him riddled with anxiety, but he did it anyway. More calming to him, and just as fun for the kids, were the days spent outside; hiking, camping, fourwheeling, exploring the woods and getting dirty and tired. He did these things when he could, and the kids loved it, especially because of the life and energy that swirls around a “Tigger.”
Who can’t help but be drawn to the frenetic spark that hypomania brings? The sky is bluer, the grass is greener, the clouds have interesting shapes, and the whole world is a playground. There are few worries in the world of Up, and boundless energy. No request need be denied, no financial concerns, even physical ailments, such as bad shoulders or aching back from years of carpentry, cease to be a consideration. It must be like a tiny slice of heaven on Earth.
But, Up’s evil twin, Down is never far away. He also goes by the name of Eeyore, depression, hopelessness or shame. He is as heavy and gray as Up is light and sunny. Every task seems monumental, worrying turns to anxiety, and every ache and pain pile on the top of the sufferer, weighing him down and threatening to bring down the whole household, if you let it. It’s as if the brilliant sun is suddenly dimmed by storm clouds. A deluge of negativity and pain threatens to wash us all away, carrying everyone down a river of despair. A tiny slice of Hell on earth. But hold on, because summer is right around the corner. Melancholy will move and joy will return.
I liken my experiences with Bipolar to life in the Pine Tree State. It is not uncommon in Maine to have the heat on in the car in the morning, and the AC on in the afternoon, snow might fall one day, and the next day, it is so warm, winter jackets are shucked off like snake skin. A gorgeous sunrise, the sky streaked with orange, crimson and promise, slowly fades to billows of gun metal gloom that overshadow the whole day. Life in Maine is not for the feint of heart, and neither is life with a person who suffers from a mood disorder. But, Maine is called Vacationland for a reason. It is beautiful and rugged and teaches perseverance and strength, and how to cheerfully navigate the hard times while looking forward to the good times. My kids have learned these things, and I’m thankful that they are strong, determined adults, with no signs of the infirmity their father bears. Just as Maine could never be called bland or boring; no endless flat cornfield, or boundless sunshine here, growing up with a bipolar parent has never been dull for my children. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t trade their father or their home state, so full of color and vigor, for an anemic, yet sensible landscape. Both predictable in their unpredictableness, and more precious for it.
