“But that’s not my story to tell” is what Marylou said, but it is mine.
I’m the “younger sister,” Jodie, that Marylou refers to throughout her book. Although it is important to understand that this book is written entirely from her perspective of what happened in her life and her relationship with her siblings, I feel like it is very important to address the quote above. This is not meant to be defensive but merely to educate. I had asked Marylou why she didn’t just address this herself and she strongly felt it was my story to tell. I am a strong advocate for educating people on mental health issues, so here’s my story that even Marylou didn’t fully know. Funny thing about perspectives we all have them.
I attended a Catholic school from 2nd thru 8th grade. I was harassed and abused in this small parochial school community from the peers in my class. This aspect of my daily life was not known by my parents or family members. There was an 8 year (oldest sister) and 7 year (Marylou) age difference from my older sisters, and I never wanted my parents to be disappointed in me, so I never shared the stories of what I endured. This was my childhood, filled with these formative, lasting memories and feelings of despair.
Shortly after my first marriage at the age of 24, I was diagnosed with manic depression. I was put on Zoloft and my moods evened out and the blackness disappeared…until January of 1998 when I found out I was pregnant. I was taken off my medication at that time antidepressants and their effect on pregnancy were not well known and immediately plunged into a deep depression. I also subsequently suffered severe postpartum depression which I survived through the grace of God. Six months after my daughter was born, I found out I was pregnant with my son. After his birth, I experienced severe postpartum psychosis- I was convinced my children would be better without me as their mother. I went a total of three years struggling without any type of medication for my mental health disease. This was a silent burden I carried, unknown to my siblings.
My marriage suffered as my husband was the one who took the brunt of my mood swings, however, no one was immune to my violent outbursts, tongue lashings, manic highs, manic lows…life with me was understandably unbearable. I loved my husband, the first person who had believed in me and loved me; I also loved him enough to see the emptiness and weariness in his eyes as my sickness had taken a toll on him. We finally divorced. From 2004 to 2009, my children and I lived with my parents. While living with my parents, I experienced the depression and mania associated with my disease, and they were aware of my profound struggle. I often couldn’t even get dressed; I laid in the bed and would find that getting up to go to the bathroom required too much energy. Then there were the other days when the sky was very blue and the grass was a bright green. Thoughts would race through my head of all the things I was going to accomplish. God placed me in my parents’ home so that my children would have someone to care for them when I couldn’t. He also knew that I could not go through what I was going through alone.
I remarried in 2009. Despite changes in my medications, my disease was not under control and I was barely functioning. I entered an outpatient program where I would receive therapy and meet with a psychiatrist daily to figure out the correct medications that I needed to be on. Therapy was helpful and I went through a large list of medications until we landed on the most obvious one – lithium. For the first time in my life I felt calm, even. At that time, not only did I feel what I knew was normal, I also was finally diagnosed with Bipolar II. Medicine had advanced to the point where what I had been experiencing the majority of my life finally had a name, definitive symptoms, and treatment. What I didn’t realize was that while medicine had advanced, society had not. “Bipolar” became a stigma, its symptoms misunderstood.
I was not eager to share my new “diagnosis” with my family, but was encouraged as part of the treatment program. An expert delivered the information on the disease, how it affects people and how they should deal with me going forward. I think my mother was relieved that there was an explanation for my behavior and treatment to help me. My oldest sister, Linda called immediately upon finding out I was Bipolar. She said that looking back to even my high school years, all the signs were there and she was sorry that she did not recognize them. Marylou, I remember, asked questions. Based on our history, she wanted to know what the future would be like. The counselor gave directions on how they were to deal with me if I had any outburst, manic highs or manic lows. The counselor also reiterated that after an “episode” or outburst, the Bipolar person normally has no memory of what occurred. Although there was a diagnosis, I had hurt a lot of people, ruined family get-togethers and caused a lot of conflict in my family. Marylou was wary to attempt a relationship, but as she was able to see my medication working and my moods stabilizing, her heart opened up even though it had not healed.
It is often easy to look back and wish for different choices and decisions. I truly feel that I did the best I could with what I had; unfortunately, a lack of understanding contributed to judgment and criticism from my family and affected relationships. Marylou’s only recent understanding of my mental illness and struggles was welcomed, but her perspectives on my childhood, early adult behavior and our relationship remain hers.
Over the past two years, we really began to spend more time together. We spoke on the phone daily and she was my “cheerleader” as I overcame various obstacles. I wish we had had more time, but I wish even more that we could have talked more about these years ago; she would certainly have been a strong support; she loved and protected those she loved fiercely!
Perspectives are also about understanding.
