Just keep swimming

A little part inside of me dies every time we weather one of those “fits”.

I called her bluff the day she sawed on her wrist with a kitchen knife (I knew the knife was dull). But when she ran out her bedroom window onto the porch roof last night and threw her legs over the edge, I was less sure whether to call her bluff or call 911.

Balancing on the tightrope between giving in to the bipolar fits and remaining strong and teaching her to not use theatrics to get her way has finally worn me down. “Please come in,” I begged, hating myself for it at the same time.

After she was safely tucked in bed for the night and “permanently seal windows” in her bedroom was added to the “To Do” list, my inner self curled into the fetal position once the adrenaline subsided and has remained there. And I hate myself for it.

I was raised to always be strong. Weakness is a character flaw. Like Dory from Finding Nemo, “Just keep swimming!” is my mantra.

When my son was a baby, I called my mom constantly for advice. She had been a mom, after all, and bonus – she’s a nurse!