Dear Son of Mine,

You are a young man now. Still creative, still easy to cry when you brush against nostalgia, still angry and suffering. Only now we know it might be bipolar.

“Bipolar”. What does that really mean? Is it just a bandaid diagnosis we slap on the knee of behavior we can’t explain? No, I know better than that. I studied the brain for too many years. Your therapist thinks it’s highly likely and treating accordingly could bring much relief to both of us.

By 9 a.m. I’m exhausted with you. Trying to get you up in the morning is like trying to raise an angry dead. When the school complained of your excessive tardiness and pointed a bony finger at me, I just sighed. I wanted to say, “YOU come over in the morning and try to wake this kid up. Let’s see how you do.” But I didn’t. I swallowed the blame, the guilt, and the shame. Yes, I thought, I could do better.

When the school called for the umpteenth time complaining of your behavior and pointed a bony finger at me, I cried for the 30th time that year. Yes, I thought, I must be doing something wrong. Not enough structure, not enough discipline, not enough home-made meals shared under the warm kitchen lights, not enough oversight and monitoring and talking. Not enough, not enough. I tried harder. Twisted my spine into unnatural shapes while yielding every tool of self-punishment. I must do better.

When the police officer reported to me that you were intoxicated beyond dangerous levels and you had been outrageously verbally abusive to those trying to help you, I hung my head in shame. He asked me, “Is this how you raise your kid?” I wanted to say, “Yeah, we have an anti-authority, binge-drinking, training camp in our basement.” Instead, I talked softly and reasonably tried to explain that I was “working on it” and listed off the laundry list of professionals on the case. He looked on suspiciously and filed his report. I brought you home, stinking of vomit and tears, muttering incoherently on your side of the car.

When one guidance counselor told me you were the worst case he had ever seen, I said, “I know”. When another told me that you were interesting and complex and genuinely in touch with your emotions, I said, “I know”.

So far you’ve been diagnosed with:

Depression

Borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder

Oppositional-defiant disorder

Generalized anxiety disorder

Addictive personality disorder

Temporal lobe disorder

Conduct disorder

Just being a punk kid

and now

Bipolar

You are so many things. Bright, interesting, funny, thoughtful, kind, creative, vastly intelligent and fiercely loyal to your friends and family. What label do they have for that?

Today my friend writes to me, “I wish he didn’t have to have so much suffering in his life!”.

Me too.

Me too.

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