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!



There’s no one to call for my daughter. None of my friends have these issues with their kids. And the loneliness of that fact is killing me. I don’t want to whine because no one gets it anyway. They don’t know the paralyzing fear that she’ll kill herself one day in a fit of irrationality. They haven’t experienced the frustration of trying to rationalize with/discipline a ten year old furiously kicking a kitchen chair into you and screaming hatred, then crying abuse when physically restrained all because you said ‘no’ to something. They haven’t had to try to determine if you feel you have the situation under control or need to call the police or EMS for help.

I have no choice but continue taking the knocks. But the spark I normally have is doused at the moment. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. The constant monitoring, the medication trials, the meetings with the school… all the while pretending everything is “normal”.

And this all came about because she had to clean her room. Yup. Oh the drama.

I spent this morning googling suicide rates among bipolars. The stats are truly frightening. I’ve been fighting the last several years to make sure she has a chance to be a successful and hopefully happy productive adult. The reality that she may not even make it to adulthood knocked me sideways.
I think now I’m starting to go crazy. Sigh. I can’t move today.

Just keep swimming. She will likely need to be hospitalized one day. I just never know where that tipping point is. She may even hurt herself or me one day. But I can’t live on the what if horror of potential outcomes. I need to pick myself up and get out of this fetal position. Nobody can help me but me.