In Many Ways I Don't Mind: Genetics and Bipolar Disorder

XV


It's an oldfashioned, an outrageous thing
to believe one has a "destiny"

-a thought often peculiar to those
who possess privilege-

But there is something else: the faith
of those despised and endangered

that they are not merely the sum
of damages done to them:

have kept beyond violence the knowledge
arranged in patterns like kente-cloth

unexpected as in batik
recurrent as bitter herbs and unleavened bread

of being a connective link
in a long continuous way

of ordering hunger, weather, death, desire
and the nearness of chaos.

Adrienne Rich


Two of my aunts were mentally ill. No one talked about it much. I knew when they were hospitalized and where. I knew one of them had taken off her clothes at the airport and declared "Come naked before the Lord." No one seemed particularly ashamed, just worried. My mother used to tell me to stop writing poetry or I'd end up like my aunt (who was a well known poet). What I didn't know is it can be inherited.

I think it best if someone in my family had to inherit bipolar disorder, it was better it be me. Protected as they are, I don't know if any of the rest of them could handle it (maybe my brother could). They are all strong and have troubles of their own to overcome and they've handled it admirably, but this one is very, very hard. I think, perhaps wrongly they would have crumbled.

Because there have been gifts associated with my illness, I don't think it's all bad news. Even as a child I didn't want to be like everyone else. I didn't mind not fitting in. I was pretty much a loner, although I dated a lot and was (I learned later) considered popular and well liked. I didn't have many real friends.

However, I've always been a writer, not a great writer, but a writer all the same. I started writing poetry when I was only seven. When I showed one of my powems to my fifth grade teacher she accused me of copying it out of a book. So it must have been okay writing. It was good enough to be a well recieved Masters' Thesis. Mostly, it's been good therapy for me.

Today, one of my daughters asked for all rights to it so she could have it published, maybe after I die. She wants that in writing in case there is a family dispute over it. I promised her I would, and I was happy she wanted it. She is trying to write a book about being the child of a "mad" mother. If she gets it finished (right now, she too busy to possibly work on it) the book would help the millions affected by family members of someone who is bipolar. So, I hope she does.

I think my family gave me a gift, a mixed blessing. Most everything is a double edged sword. I've already written about my gratitude for the many things this illness has given me: increased wisdom, passion about ideas and people, increased compassion,and on and on. I would not have read as deeply and widely as I have. I wouldn't have been so driven to get my education. I wouldn't have been so driven - period.

The suffering it has caused me has made me strong. My daughter calls me "locker room tough." I would have preferred not to be so strong, but I am grateful that I am. Otherwise I would have given into suicide. I'd be dead by now. There is a reason so many poets are writers are suicides.

It would have been nice if I hadn't had to be this strong. No one is born that way. Life has to demand it of you. You must give in to the demand. I wish my aunts were still alive so I could tell them I understand. I wish they were still here so I could be a support to them, the kind of support only someone who has a mental illness can be.

So, I have my regrets and thankfulness for my genetics. It is a family thing, something we pretty much keep personal. I don't think my family could take much more exposure and sometimes embarassment on my account. I don't want them to have to. Although it may be genetic, at least it's not catching.