A Mother's Journey through Bi-polar Disorder and Addiction
I was weary of where my writing would take us. I was unsure if we were ready to revisit the scars of the past and open fresh wounds. Unsure my son was prepared to read my thoughts and if he was, how would he feel when I was done.
People can tell you something a hundred times, and in your head, you know it to be true...though it is not until you live through the experience, that you believe the truth in your heart. It is common knowledge Bipolar Disorder and addiction are not contagious diseases...yet they are...every individual who loves the person afflicted with these diseases is affected. Any family who has endured a battle with addiction can testify to this truth.
For a few years his teachers had noticed he was, “bored, not being challenged.” At the age of nine, his school tested his IQ; shortly thereafter he was placed in the gifted program. I would sit and watch him read a book, absorbing everything in the same way I imagine a huge sponge would soak up the ocean. A few years after his testing, he began going through many changes. Changes which did not make sense, even to this first-time mother; his mood swings went beyond your typical pre-teen and teenage angst. Though it was different, it was reminiscent of the separation anxiety phase.
The roller-coaster lifestyle, from my son's mental illness, was beginning to take a toll on my own emotional and mental health. Though his outbursts were spaced far apart, I continuously felt I could never catch my breathe. Each bout of irrational rage, I became less adept at handling the situation.
Brady and I discussed inpatient treatment; I should say, I discussed, and he listened. Knowing his fear of confinement, it was a sensitive subject. His instant and straightforward response chilled me to my core, “Mom I cannot do it. If you put me in one of those places, the only way I am leaving is in a body bag.” Some incidents in life you never forget or how the incident made you feel...this was one of those incidents. I was not brave enough to call his bluff.
Recalling one of our blunt discussions, Brady told me he tried alcohol at a party; he hated it and the way it made him feel. Knowing alcohol and bipolar disorder do not mix, I was grateful. Later the following summer we had a long discussion, he explained he had been smoking for medicinal purposes. Brady and I had researched this option, but it was not legal in our state. I stopped my research while, unbeknownst to me, he continued his. He was always reading, still absorbing his material like a sponge; but this time the subject was not Harry Potter or computer coding, it was the different strains of THC and their effects on Bipolar patients. I knew my son’s mental state had improved, I was grateful for the improvement; yet, never fully comprehending why. The breakdowns were less, the mania was not as severe, and the dark deep lulls of depression were evening out. The frequent struggle we seemed to always repeat, where Brady begged me to allow him to give in to his mental illness, became infrequent. I desperately wanted to believe his medications were finally working; so desperate in fact that I did not stop to consider an outside source was the reason for the calm in our home. We rarely discussed the details of his psychologist and psychiatrist appointments; the little amount of information he would offer, was generic. The more I pried, the more he retreated into his shell. Because of his age, I was not privy to his discussions with his mental health team; I began to feel as though my hands were bound and tied.
There was no denying what had happened; the ramifications of his drug use were smacking me in the face. My mind became cluttered and fuzzy as I flew into crisis mode; which also entailed being nauseous, not eating or sleeping. The night of his arrest seemed like the longest night of my life; there was nothing or no one capable of consoling me. I spent the night wondering and worrying what affect lock-up would have on his mental state. I was consumed by one question…when am I allowed to pick up my nineteen-year old son from prison? Not a task any mother ever imagines herself aspiring to. I was not allowed inside the prison gates; I sat in my car, waiting in the parking lot for him to exit. My palms were sweaty, and heart was racing, as I waited in anticipation to see him emerge past the guards. My son was not a hardened criminal, he was self-medicating to numb the chaos afflicting his mind and body. I sat in our living room eight days later, lit by the soft glow of our Christmas tree, watching Brady and his sister open their presents. It was a surreal moment, as snow gently fell from the sky; I looked at my husband with tears in my eyes and whispered, “This is all I wanted.” Nine days prior I had no idea if this was even a possibility; it was as close to perfection as possible, even if it would be short lived.
Other than marijuana, Brady’s drug of choice was always stimulants; I should not have been surprised, yet a part of me was. As the denial wore off and reality set in, my heart sunk; the numb feeling was exchanged for that all too familiar sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hung up the phone and explained everything to my husband and daughter; the only word to describe the next forty-eight hours was tumultuous. I did not want to believe this was happening, yet there was no other option. My son’s addiction was knocking on my doorstep and for his sake, I had only one choice…answer the door and accept what was behind it. I kept asking myself, how can I help him? I knew I would not find any of the answers I needed on the internet or in any self-help books…been there, done that…the truth I needed to accept was, I could not help him. This had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. Only Brady could choose to go to rehab, only Brady could choose to help himself; no matter what help was extended to him, only he could do the work and make himself well. It would have been simple to take control of the situation and make this go away for him. But what purpose would that have served? The truth was: the help I would have extended to him would not help him at all…only enable him. I realized the only appropriate action in this situation, was no action; except to be there when my son needed me and my support. I needed to sit in the backseat for this journey, trusting Brady would guide us safely to our destination. Ironically, I get car sick when I ride in the backseat; doing nothing, left me with a similar feeling.
The moment I saw Brady, my insides felt identical to the day when he emerged from the prison gates four years prior. I could feel my body shaking, I was ecstatic and nervous all at the same time. He looked well, there was a discernible sense of peace about him. Our time with him quickly flew by, as the four of us carried on a two-hour, candid conversation about Brady’s illness and his addiction. There were many things I did not know, many things I did not want to know and many things I needed to come to terms with. Overall the visit went well, and the peace Brady felt transferred to me; making this ride home much more tolerable. This ride was acutely different from our last, everything was covered in white and the sun shined high in the sky. Though any of this was far from over, our visit had lifted an enormous weight off my mind and heart. I felt as though someone had taken a needle and thread to my sanity, sleeping more soundly than I had in weeks.