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Scarlet Mother
"She taught me compassion, how to love and care about people. I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t grown up with a bipolar mother. "
By Jennifer Marshall, 19
October 21, 2007
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Youth Radio’s Jennifer Marshall shares the story of her experience living with a bipolar mom. She says, "When she was diagnosed as bipolar, I finally had a scapegoat. I couldn’t hate my mom, but I could hate the disorder that consumed her."
When I was studying genetics in high school, everyone was asked what traits they inherited from their families, and who from. Most people said they had the same eye color or shape of nose. When it was my turn, I told everyone my mom passed down her poor eyesight. But I knew there was a chance that I’d inherited another trait from my mom; her bipolar disorder.
Since I was thirteen months old, my sister and I have been in and out of foster homes because my mom was in and out of psych wards. Craziness seems to be the dominant trait in my family; everyone has some form of mental illness. But sometimes, it feels like my mom got the worst of it and I got the leftovers.
My mother has always been a kind, loving person. As a child, I didn’t understand why she would go from manic to depressed in a matter of days or even hours. At the time I thought her behavior was normal.
I was two when she was diagnosed with bipolar Disorder.
As a result, I would bounce back and forth between foster homes and my mom’s apartment. When I would go back to school in my hometown, all the kids would ask where I‘d been. I was too embarrassed to tell them that my mom was sometimes too crazy to take care of me. So instead, I would lie. I’d romanticize my mother’s life, claiming she had to go to some exotic place and leave me with my family in California.
Eventually, the pressure of taking care of my family took its toll. Sick of being the glue holding everyone together, I broke away and moved to the Bay Area at thirteen. Each year, my mom would visit from Florida. Even though I missed her, I dreaded seeing her again. I was a different person when my mom was around—angry, bitter, and most of all, ashamed. I wouldn’t want her to meet my friends or boyfriend. When I would pick her up from the train station, I would cringe as she would walk up from the platform with her mismatched, oversized clothes, her fanny pack twisted backward. Even the way she moved--stiff and stumbling—embarrassed me. She always had a smile on her face, but it wasn’t a sweet smile. It was the smile of someone who’d been on a plethora of psychotic drugs. My instinct was to turn around and run back to the car. But then I’d feel guilty for feeling that way about someone who had given me life.
When I turned eighteen and after being in therapy I began to forgive my mother.
I would remember the nights when I would be the only one to comfort her during her worst bouts of depression. My mother taught me compassion, how to love and care about people. I don’t know who I would be now if I hadn’t grown up with a bipolar mother. And in the end, is that really something to be embarrassed about?
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