Monday, March 30, 2015


Every now and then I come up against a subject so raw, I avoid blogging it. 

Say, infidelity. 

Manias are another one. 

Let me take you back in time, myself, as a small toddler (I was extremely underweight due to the neglect).  I lived in my crib, my crib was my prison.  Once my Dad and sister left the house, I was placed into the crib and left there for 12 hours until they returned.  During that time, I was not released. 

I was not fed, changed, rocked, or nurtured in any way.  It was a miserable existence, full of crying, my snotty face and eyes red and sore as I cried, hungry, in my sagging diaper. 

I really only lived when my Dad came home, one reason I am such a Daddy's girl.  Dad'd release me, feed me, get me cleaned up, fed, bath, playtime.  Life was wonderful with Dad. 

I hated my solo existence when he left, but there was something worse.  My mother drank to "manage" her bipolar symptoms.  When she was depressed she just lived in bed, neglecting me to the point she lost custody. 

One time I had been released from my crib for some reason, I followed her around the house, seeking attention.  She went downstairs.  We had a staircase leading to the basement, it had a turn and some pretty steep steps.  They normally kept the door shut for obvious safety reasons. 

Desperate for attention, I attempted to follow her, fell, and went down the entire flight of stairs, hitting my head on the floor as I landed.  I lay there, cried and cried.  She ignored me. 

Eventually, I picked myself up and tried to follow her into the utility room.  She shut the door in my face.  I cried at the door for a while longer, probably hungry. 

I finally gave up, climbed back up the stairs, and went into my bedroom. I have a dent in my skull, just inside my hairline. 

Worse: the mania. 

I remember crying in my crib, as usual, one day.  Suddenly, the door opened, and my mother came in, completely drunk and entirely manic.  She began attempting to sweet talk me and reached for me, reeking of alcohol, body odor, and cigarette smoke.  I screamed in terror, trying to hide, and backed up.  She grabbed me anyway. 

I'm sure she took me off on what she considered to be an adventure, something that completely terrified me.  It was hell. 

I hate manias.  Nothing scares me more.  Ron was so happy when we bought the house, and I was so panicky, thinking he was manic.  I didn't have a word for it then but his joy terrified me.  I find that very sad, so scarred by my mother I couldn't even share his joy.  

I hate admitting I am manic.  I hate admitting I have anything in common with that woman who damaged me so deeply.  I can't even drive!

I hate that I share her illness, and I, so easily, could end up just like her: homeless, broke, and half-naked dead on a motel floor, a 2 liter bottle of vodka at my side.  It's horrifying.  I can't imagine a worse fate than ending up like my mother.  She had extreme drama and head games every day of her life.

Don't get me wrong: I forgive her.  I believe she loved me, as best she could.

I had an experience.  About the time my mother died, I had a dream: a woman came to me and apologized for "hurting" me.  She said it had not been her intent, she loved me and had never wished me harm.  I could feel tremendous love coming from the woman.  I forgave her.

About a year later, I found out my mother died about that time.  So, I think maybe God let her apologize before moving on.  I don't know.  It doesn't matter either way: I am commanded to forgive, God gave me what I needed to do so, I did, I moved on.

I will, however, never have children.  I don't have any kind of healthy model for that.

I hate manias - they remind me of my mother.  They scare me, forcing me to confront my illness.  They make me feel powerless in a way the depression never can.

I hate to admit when I'm manic.  Having them, even medicated, makes me realize the hell I'd endure off my medication. 

I'm not, today.  It's the usual hellish depression.  

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