When I was young, I remember being told that my mother was sick. As a child, being "sick" means that your body is sick...You have a headache, sore throat, stomachache, etc. I never could have imagined that it was my mother's mind that was ill. Her first diagnosis was bipolar disorder. Bipolar disorder is a manic depressive disorder, it can cause major mood swings, increase or decrease in energy, and even maniac episodes in severe cases. The disorder can affect ones entire life, including those around them. For a long time, this diagnosis made sense. My mother went through extreme emotional ups and downs. Some days, she would be extremely happy-- everything would go just right and nothing could ruin her mood on these days. Other days, she would be terribly angry-- threatening to kill herself or (her favorite) threatening to drive off of a bridge with my sister and I in the car with her.
The second diagnosis came many years later, sometime around my 16th birthday. This diagnosis was Borderline Personality Disorder, which is characterized by unstable moods, reckless behavior and unstable relationships with people. This diagnosis is very similar to bipolar disorder making it very easy to be misdiagnosed the first time. This diagnosis pieced together some of her other strange behaviors; such as her sexual promiscuity, inability to feel certain emotions towards other humans-- including her own children, and the psychotic breaks that have landed her in the local psych ward throughout my life.
Throughout my childhood, she would disappear for months on end and then reappear like nothing ever happened. She also managed to blame every single one of her "disappearing acts" on someone else, usually my step-mother or father. For so many years, I believed every single one of these little lies she told me--no matter how many people told me she was lying. She is my mother, and I never wanted to believe she could lie to her own child, but she did...again and again. She manipulated my sister and I both and turned us against the people who actually cared about us. We were too often just pawns in her little game, rather than children that deserved love and support. I was afraid of expressing my emotions, because I feared my words or actions might send her into another psychotic break. I was afraid to share my thoughts and feelings with others because my mother's psychosis became the norm to me and I did not want to hurt anyone's feelings.
At 20 years old, I barely have a relationship with my mother-- mostly a text here and there to see how she is. The relationship I have with her is mostly that of a friendship. I do not consider her my mother, because (thankfully) another woman stepped up to take her place when I was just 3 years old-- my mom (stepmom). She raised me through the good and the bad while my mother was busy jumping from man to man and manipulating her own children.
After many years of struggling, I know that it is OK to let go. I can let go of my mother because I sacrificed myself for her for far too long. I grew up so fast, because she acted more like the child and someone had to be the parent. It is OK for me to tell someone I do not like they way I am being treated, without fear of retaliation. I know it is OK to cut out anyone who tells me it is her illness and that I am a terrible child for caring about my own mental health more than hers. I now know that her illness is not an excuse for how she treated me because she had help and often refused to take it. A mental illness is not an excuse to emotionally abuse your children. It is not an excuse to miss out on your child's life. It is not an excuse to miss out on games, competitions, senior night, and my high school graduation. If she cared, she would get the help she needs. I struggle to understand why she does not care and I most likely always will. However, I have grown as a person, since I was able to let her go and care about myself more.
For anyone in this situation, I hope your parent gets the help they need and that your mental health is as important to you as your parents because it is way harder to pick up the pieces of yourself later.
