Family of Origin: Destiny

This chapter explores how the stage is set for what our future holds. You may or may not relate; but I know now that, without a doubt, this is where my predestined journey was established, playing out as my reality later in life.

Our family of origin plays a large part in whether or not we will be diagnosed bipolar, schizophrenic, or with some other mental illness. Genetics play the biggest role in our illness. In my case, mental illness started on my grandmother's side of the family. My grandmother's first husband was thought to have been bipolar; he had a very obvious mental illness. He was an extreme alcoholic and was abusive to my grandmother. My grandmother divorced him when my mother was twelve years old. Sometime after the divorce, my grandfather committed suicide by driving his car off of a cliff.

My mother suffered from some minor depression. I believe it was due partly to never really knowing her father or any of his family. He was not around much for her to ever get to know him.

My mother's brother was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was eighteen years of age. My grandmother did not know what to do with him. He was extremely unmanageable. She had no choice but to commit him to The Mental Institution in Oregon, where he remained for over 30 years, and where he was horribly mistreated.

After my uncle was at the institution 31 years, the FDA discovered a drug called Clozaril. After he had been on a regimen of Clozaril for one year, he was finally doing very well. He was released back to his home town, where he was placed in an adult foster home. He seemed to do well there. He loved to walk around town, and he had his favorite places to go. Often times I would see him in town at a little market, which was one of his daily stopping and resting places. He would be standing, sitting, or leaning on the side of the building. I would stop and give him five dollars. I was never able to make any sense of what my uncle was saying. I pretended to understand, for his sake. Drugs over the years had affected his speech tremendously, and he drooled a lot.

One day when I saw him at the market, the manager came out and asked me, "Ma'am, is he bothering you?" I answered no rather sharply, and explained that he was my uncle. The man was very surprised and went back inside. That was one of the first steps along my journey. I accept my uncle for who he was, not a transient, as others saw him. He was a very sweet man who deserved respect, like us all.

In foster care, my uncle was given an allowance every day for coffee and cigarettes. He led a very simple life until his death at the age of 60. He passed from pneumonia and emphysema. My grandmother was devastated. She felt guilty, wishing she'd had more time with him. She wanted to make up for the three decades that she was not present in his life; but the fact is, there was not anything she could have done for him in those years, nor anything much after he came back home.

Whether or not mental illness started one hundred years ago or forty years ago in our family, it will shape and determine our lives. My mother's family's genes were passed down to her. She never had any symptoms of mental illness. However, she was often unavailable to my three brothers and me when we were growing up. Our lives were never normal. There was constant chaos in our home. At the age of 19, my youngest brother was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Later in life, I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Disorder with Psychosis.

I am quite capable of living on my own. However, my brother is living in a foster home. He will not take medications, and is frequently hospitalized for bizarre behaviors — such as running down the highway, without clothing, shouting that he was being deported. At that point, the police took him to the hospital, where they put him in the Psychiatric Ward. He has been hospitalized like this several times. In Oregon, if patients refuse medication but do not pose a threat to themselves, the institution lets them go.

My brother lives a truly horrible existence. He believes that Satan is always speaking to him. He is very violent toward televisions and windows, he believes people are watching him through the windows, and that the television and Satan are speaking to him and telling him to kill people. He has never hurt anyone, except in elementary school, where he did get into a lot of fights and got expelled.

No matter what you do or try, nothing will work without medication.

The diagnosis of Bipolar 1 Disorder with Psychosis is described as having severe episodes with hallucinations and delusions. During a psychotic episode, I will not reason with anyone, and will at times end up in the hospital. This is very rare. But if it happens, I have learned a lot of ways to cope during these horrible times. Psychosis causes false fixed beliefs, meaning I can take what someone says and instantly my mind goes to thinking that person is out to get me. Hallucinations and delusions are always present with episodes of psychosis. Some are extreme and terrifying, while others are more mild. They are normally due to a change in my Lithium level. A change can happen if I have a difference in my routine, or experience stress or a lack of sleep. Alcohol can be a big factor as well, so I try to stay away from it completely. Under the care of my doctor, who adjusts my Lithium, I will level out most times within two to three days. Once it is corrected, I return to a sane state of mind, and all is normal again. Thankfully these episodes are few and far between.

Every manic episode will also cause psychotic symptoms. I have learned to live with them. They are difficult when they happen, because they seem all too real. I keep telling myself during the episode: This too shall pass. I have been here before and it will level out again. Even though I am aware, and tell myself that it will be okay, I am still terrified that there may come a time when I won't ever level out again.

I have two daughters, and I also try to help others — mostly elderly people, with tasks such as grocery shopping, light housekeeping, and companionship. Elderly people can become very demanding of my time, so I have to set boundaries with them. They don't take that very well. When they don't, I have to let them go. People have to respect my time, as I respect theirs. Having a very severe illness can make these seemingly simple things all but impossible to do at times.

When I speak of stability, I am speaking of periods of time when I am not actively suicidal, manic, or depressed. I will always suffer from irritability, aggression, and agitation; this is the disease. I do not want to even try to fathom what my life would be like without Lithium. Most likely, I would not be on this Earth. Later in life, I am hopeful that I will see my symptoms become less severe, as my stress level lowers when my children are both off to college and life is less demanding. A very loving relationship will also diminish episodes. I am very much an outdoors person, and I have someone in my life now who has the same interests. Being in nature is God's natural medicine, and I will take it in to the fullest.

I have listed in the back of this book some coping skills that are very helpful. I use them regularly, and they help me to get through most of the stress in my life. If I am stress-free, I am episode-free.

Bipolar illness is very complex. Any person who is Bipolar 1, Bipolar 2, or Bipolar 3 experiences varying degrees of racing thoughts and delusions. With my Bipolar 1 and Psychosis, it is hard for me to distinguish between mania and depression. Either one takes me to a state of insanity. When I am depressed, I still have extreme anger, irritability, and psychosis — which mimics mania in a lot of ways. Whatever type of bipolar a person suffers from, the symptoms are often debilitating, and can quickly become overwhelming. The symptoms of this grave disease vary widely from individual to individual, so medications must be customized for each person. Some individuals may just desire to sleep when they are depressed. When manic, they may still have some degree of control over their lives.

Early Childhood: Chaos — Dark and Afraid

When do the earliest childhood memories start affecting an individual with bipolar disorder? I believe that bipolar can act in one of two ways. Of course the gene is there; however, professionals cannot predict when it may rear its ugly head. Some say that with a loving and stable home environment in the early years, bipolar will develop later in life. In a home filled with chaos, drama, and physical abuse, it may be more likely to manifest itself at a younger age, and possess different qualities, as in my case. This is my hypothesis, of course. I believe this disease is truly a mystery when it comes to predicting the level of bipolar symptoms an individual may suffer.

As a child I was paranoid all the time. I believe this was due to the way I was treated on a daily basis. I was also an extreme introvert. This was due to the chaos and drama that was a daily occurrence in my home. I have memories of my life beginning at six years of age. My brother Evan, the youngest, and I were closest in age and size. My grandmother and my mother dressed me like a boy. So, my youngest brother and I were dressed exactly the same. At the time, I thought it was normal. In the neighborhood I grew up in, there were not any girls to play with, just several boys. We lived on a very remote street out in the country, in a very small town. So as a girl I was treated exactly the same as a boy by all the neighbor kids. They would set me up to fight other boys, I would most always win. I was used to fighting with my brothers; it was a way of life for me. I did not like it, but I felt that I had to go along in order to have any interaction with the other kids. They were just using me to humiliate the other boy when I would win. This brought on a lot of embarrassment; I was always embarrassed to be a girl. I remember several nights praying to God to change me into a boy. I thought being a boy would protect me.

I was an easily influenced child. When I was eight years old, a neighbor started molesting me. Even at this young age, I knew something wasn't right but I felt powerless over him. He would threaten me that bad things would happen to me if I should tell anyone. This really scared me into keeping this dark secret. I felt unclean and afraid. He sodomized me in front of others. I did not know how to escape. My mother was so unavailable, I certainly would not tell her. This went on for many years. He did all kinds of horrible things to me, including raping me. Later in life, I am still disgusted. How does a man rape a girl at such a young age? I already felt awkward, and all these experiences just underlined my hatred towards life. The last time he touched me inappropriately was when I was 16, and only for a brief second. It happened in front of a girl I knew from school, which made me feel worse than I already did.

My father was an extreme alcoholic. On his way home from work, my father would stop at a little market a mile from our home, and buy a twelve-pack of beer. He would open one immediately and drive home. From there, he would go into his shop and drink until my mother called him in for dinner.

Dinner was full of torment. My mother could be very vicious. She would continuously tell my father how horrible we had behaved all day. He would fly into a rage, tear off his belt, and chase us one by one down the hallway to our bedrooms and whip us. My oldest brother remembers wetting his pants out of fear. It is very hard to explain how I felt at this time. I was definitely humiliated, and I would cry and cry, and ask time and time again in my mind, Why would they do this to us? It did not make any sense. At times, often at the dinner table, my mother would reach over and slap me across the face. I assumed I had said something she disliked. I would become enraged, but I knew I could not show it, or she would slap me again. My rage grew towards my father as well. I realized something else after a while: My mother never slapped my brothers like that. I was very confused. I always felt that she hated me. My entire childhood was filled with fear, rage, disgust, and humiliation. Later in my teenage and adult life, my rage started to come out.

My home was always immersed in a circle of violence, guilt, and shame. Living this life made me start to dislike everyone. After school, I started climbing to the tops of trees so I could hide; or, I would climb to the top of a mountain where I could see our entire small valley, and have some peace. In this way, I was able to avoid my mother and brothers, so that I could stay out of trouble. I would wait at the top of the tree or mountain, until Mother would call Father in for dinner. I figured, that way, I was safe. She never paid much attention to where I was all day.

One day I purposely rode off on my motorcycle. I went up into the mountains. It was early in the day, when we had a day off of school. I did it just to see if she would ever come looking for me. She never did. Around dinner time I went home. She never even asked me one question about where I was.

It was a lonely life. I realized later in life that I was using the tree and the mountain as a way to escape as much fear, rejection, humiliation, and abuse as possible. My two brothers and I also started skipping school frequently. We would wait on the top of the mountain, where we could look down on our home to watch our mother leave for work. She had work doing some house-cleaning jobs. When she was away at work, we had relief from her wrath; but she was only working two days a week. For school the next day, I would write notes for my brothers and me, since I could write just like my mother. In those days, the schools never called home to see why you were absent. My brothers skipped a lot more often than I did. That is probably why I graduated high school, but they did not. Skipping school also helped me at times to avoid the abusive neighbor.

My mother continued to treat me like a boy, so I copied the boys. When I was 12 years old, I would run around with my shirt off like the boys in our neighborhood. Then a boy from school came along. I liked him, and asked him over after school. He was also 12. It was hot, so I had taken my shirt off. He left, and did not come over again. My aunt and cousins stepped in that day, and my aunt explained to me how inappropriate it was for a girl to act that way. She had three daughters. I was mortified and humiliated, and of course my rage was boiling up again. I did not know why my mother never even cared. My mother's behavior continued this way towards me for years. I knew I would never be able to please her, and I never did.

* * *

As I became older, I was a recluse. I stayed away from everyone in junior high and high school. I did not have any friends, and at the time I did not want any. I was just a fly on the wall at school; I was there to graduate and start my life. I know some people who graduate and then they are afraid to live on their own. For me, it was different. I knew leaving home was my way out of misery.

All the way through school, from elementary to high school, the chaos still existed at home. My mother had attended several different churches over the years. She started attending a new church, and after she'd been attending for quite a while, she started making us go with her. The trip to church was 26 miles there and 26 miles home. My oldest brother was not required to come. He was six years older than I was, so she assumed he could make up his own mind. My mother's sister-in-law would always ride over with us. The trip was terrible. My brothers and I would fight like cats and dogs. My mother would threaten us with punishment on the way back. It happened every time. My mother would stop halfway home near a spot by the freeway under a big willow tree. She would make us all pick a branch, and she would start whipping us. It was humiliating in front of my aunt and passersby. I was now 13 years of age.

When we arrived home one day, and my Father was away at his brother's home, I could no longer contain my rage. I tackled my mother to the ground. My brothers had to pull me off of her. She would often allow my brothers to hold me down and spit in my face. She never cared when I would call her for help to make them get off of me; she would let them do it anyway. I was not going to spit in her face. I was far beyond that. I did know something about right and wrong.

I noticed about a week or so later that I had been suffering from depression for a period of about six weeks. I did not fully realize what it was doing to me; it brought out all kinds of emotions. I felt remorseful for a short period of time. After all, she was still my mother. Later in life, in therapy, I found out that it was then that I had experienced my first bipolar depression. It finally made sense — why this rage had to let itself out, and why the incident with my mother had happened. My therapist would assure me that a person can only take so much abuse, and this is all the more true if that person has bipolar. During this depression, I gained 15 pounds, not knowing why. Again, my mother never asked if anything were wrong. I made it through, and all of the weight in due course dropped off; but I had no idea this was a symptom of bipolar. Life for me at this point was full of rejection, disappointment, and other emotions I did not understand.