I don’t remember all the details of that night or what inspired the events that were about to take place. I imagine my father and mother had gotten into some kind of tug of war match over me and it was the last straw that broke the camel’s back so to speak. I can remember I had locked myself in my room. I wanted to be alone, but I was so full of rage over everything that was going on I couldn’t contain it any longer. I had my door locked, but my mom wasn’t going away so I blocked my bedroom door with the dressers I had in my room so I was sure she couldn’t get in. Where that strength came from, I’ll never know. I was 13 years old and maybe 85 pounds.
I remember the screaming, I was screaming so loud, no coherent words, just screams of absolute rage. I thought about busting everything in my room and began throwing things. When things wouldn’t break, I began hitting the walls. I just kept hitting this one spot over and over and over again until finally my hand went through it.
As fast as it all started, it stopped and I flopped on my bed in exhaustion. Somehow my bed was away from the wall and right in the middle of the floor. Another thing I don’t remember doing in my fit of rage. I could hear my mom on the phone with someone and I thought maybe it was the cops, but she had called a family member for help to try to break into my room.
In hindsight, looking back on how I acted and how I would act in the future when stress got to be too much, that call should have been for an ambulance. My mom had known from the time I was about 6 or 7 years old I had a terrible time sleeping. I would go days without sleep and I was always hearing and seeing things that no one else saw. I was always filled with paranoia and anxiety. Although my mom may not have known what bipolar was, she absolutely had to know something was not right with me and she should have sought the kind of help for me that I am now seeking for two of my own children. I believe had she sought that help for me, living a life as a bipolar adult wouldn’t be so hard sometimes.
But my mom didn’t believe in mental illness, much like the rest of my family and for those that do believe, they believe it should be hidden. I can say this because not only when I was breaking down in rage at the age of 13 and my cry for help was ignored, so was my success for writing a book and having an article written about me in the newspaper. My mom is long gone now, but not another single family member has called to wish me congrats on any of the accomplishments that have come from this book. It hurts and it hits hard sometimes, but I know I have my husband and my children’s support and that’s what truly matters!
Until next time…..