Two Years and Three Months.

It has been two years and three months since I last wrote on Single Supplement. I began to find it harder and harder to put things into words, because all my inadequacies were there for everyone to see and I started to feel quite vulnerable. I was also embarrassed at the ridiculous state of my love life, or lack of it, and have been cringing as I re-read some of the posts! With my other blog, I write about the funny things in my life, what I do, who I see, where I've gone. I try to be witty and upbeat and I don't talk about the pain or the suffering I often feel. Maybe I thought that by not writing or thinking about it, it would go away. My parents are like that… stoic, traditional, the 'stiff upper lip' generation that are embarrassed by confessions and emotions. They seem to brush things aside, rise above the shit and get through life with a deep breath and a pat on the back. That was until my mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, two years and three months ago. Oh my God. I have, literally, only just realised that's when I stopped writing this blog… how extraordinary. So, unknowingly, I stopped writing about my true feelings the moment my mother got ill. In fact, not only did I stop writing, but I stopped talking. Hmm… what would a therapist think of that?

Well, I can actually answer that question because I saw mine very soon after my mum became ill. I sat in my therapists office, crying, but not uttering a single word. When I managed to eek out a sentence, around the 56th minute of the hour, and explain my wracked sobs, my therapist knew exactly what was going on. Suddenly, I had to think about someone else other than myself. I became meaningless the moment I saw my strong vibrant mother turn into a small frail bird. She physically and mentally disappeared in just under a fortnight - the metamorphosis was staggering. I have gone through illnesses with friends and family over the years but nothing quite so terrifying as this. My Father has survived his cancer for almost 12 years, my sister has had surgery, other relatives and friends have been terribly sick, but their personalities haven't changed. In the depths of my mothers depression, I don't recognise her. I now understand why mental illness scares people so much… because it's totally unpredictable. And you, as the loved ones, know that it can't be cured with a pill or potion, with kind words or a hug, you just have to wait and hope and pray the darkness will fade. My mother does have an incredible team of doctors and therapist and they prescribe and they talk and they suggest… but it really does all come down to time. Just waiting for her to get better.

Each depressive episode seems to last about 3-4 months, and each of those times seems to be triggered by winter. She gets depressed around the beginning of December and starts to get better in Spring… we don't know why. The not knowing is the hardest things to grasp. No one really knows the cause of bipolar disorder, experts included… all they agree on is that it's a chemical change in the brain. Some experts believe that it can be brought on by trauma, or by a latent memory of an unhappy childhood for instance, but this usually happens to people in their 20's, 30's or 40's. My mother was 71 when she was diagnosed, and for all the Doctors I have spoken to in the last two years and three month, that is very very unusual. Why now? Has she really stored up all tough times she's experienced through her life until this moment in time, when she and my father lead a comfortable happy life, living in a lovely Hampshire village, surrounded by friends and family? It doesn't make sense. 

My mother has experienced trauma though… her own father suffered from bipolar disorder, although in the 1960's it was called manic depression. My grandfather owned a farm in Lincolnshire. He was a proud man and kept the profound darkness he felt to himself. He had to keep the farm going, struggling every day with his demons but unable to tell a single soul… and when it finally got too much, when he was enveloped by the black cloud, he hung himself. My mother was in her early 20's, newly married and had just had her first baby, my sister. She was suffering from baby blues (the gentle mid century term for post natal depression) and suddenly, as the oldest and most responsible daughter, had to not only take care of her distraught mother, but also her 3 younger siblings. From that day, my mother was always the one who took care of everything. She helped her sister and brother through cruel addictions with drugs and alcohol; she also watched my grandmother's slow decline into alcoholism and dementia; she was helpless to prevent the loss of all the family savings through some unfortunate investments, and therefore have their lives change overnight and forever; she has seen my sister go through a devastating divorce and struggle to get her life back on track; and she has watched me, her younger daughter, go through life threatening surgery, numerous heart wrenching break-ups, and witnessed my constant feelings of inferiority and disappointment of being both unmarried and childless. So yes, my mother has had upset in her life. She has had cause to be depressed but she has never allowed herself to feel it. To push the pain down, to change the subject, to not dwell on upsetting things… this is the way my mother was brought up and how she has always dealt with pain, with disappointment, with anger, with sadness. Until now, it seems.
      
Currently, my mother is in her third bout of depression, but, on seeing the cherry blossom on the trees and the daffodils springing up from the earth, I'm hoping the longer days and brighter light might signify it is nearly at an end. Her illness has aged my father, yet it has also brought out a tenderness that my sister and I have never seen before. For my sister and I it has meant worry and stress like never before. But I, possibly because I have no husband or child to distract me, have maybe immersed myself a little too much. I read every article and science magazine to try and understand this horrible illness and discover a better treatment. I send dozens of emails to my father, suggesting sleep treatments and light therapy, I phone constantly and visit every few weeks… but the more I have tried to fix my mother, the more I have become ill myself.

I cannot remember the last time I slept well. I am plagued with migraine type headaches and seem to come down with every cold and infection going. I know I'm run down but I can't stop worrying and trying to help. A month ago, I was told by my Doctor and sister, to take a step back, to not get quite so involved because it was consuming me. I was going to bed thinking about my mother, and waking up a few hours later in tears, angry and despairing at this cruel change of fate. Because my mother should not be spending the last few decades of her life with this illness, it's not fair. She has lived her whole life as one of the most energetic, wonderful, generous and slightly eccentric people I have ever known. She is an incredible and inspiring mother, sharing her passions for the arts, literature and her joie de vive with me, and making me the person I am. So why now, is that being taken from her?