Supporting Someone with Bipolar - For Family and Friends

by Tatty Lou - a bipolar sufferer

Spouses of bipolar sufferers often are the caretakers and care givers of the relationship. They are expected to hold everything together when emotional hurricanes hit their families. They hang on in spite of everything that is flying around them just waiting for the calm. Many people close to them expect them to be strong and almost heroically brave, when sadly, they, too, have weaknesses and fears.

So many people in their community are focused on the well-being of the bipolar person that they forget about the spouse. It can be very difficult to be the other half of a partnership in which someone is chronically ill. The spouse feels like all he/she ever does is put up and put out and that they never get anything back in return. It can be emotionally and physically draining when your spouse is continually the one that is the focus of your combined attention. The spouse often forgets to acknowledge his/her own needs and wants because their attention is so completely funneled to their partner. They may long for someone they can confide in, someone to listen to their concerns. Sometimes, the spouse can become resentful of the bipolar sufferer, and then, unfortunately, the relationship hits the rocks.

Not all relationships involving bipolar sufferers and their spouses are doomed to fail. In fact, I can think of at least three at this moment that are flourishing. These relationships survive because the two people involved are fully aware of the illness they share. That is right, share. They see their situation as a team effort. They make every effort to learn about and understand this disease together. They have established limitations and boundaries that must be respected in order for the relationship to exist and prosper. Honesty and a willingness to be open about the issues involved with manic depression is vital. And, most of all, they focus on the fact that they love each other enough to commit to the relationship in the first place. Why should that change now? Keep that love in the forefront of your mind.

As the spouse of a bipolar sufferer, you may be called upon to do things you never thought you would ever have to do. You feel the ups and downs almost as painfully as they do. You are the one expected to be strong, take care of matters at hand, and then desperately try to steer your household back from the brink. You are someone to be admired, you deserve admiration. My husband is my hero. Not just because he does heroic deeds once in a while, but because he also shows me his tears. We cry together sometimes. He shares his fears with me and tells me his weaknesses. It always amazes me that after all the hell we may go through, he can still muster a smile and hold me tight in his big, manly arms. It feels good. It also feels good to know that we are one in this big old mess of mental illness, not two alone in this freaky universe.

Visit http://www.healthyplace.com/communities/bipolar/related/support_019.asp for coping ideas for bipolar supporters.

We are going to TOLEDO!

I finally bought tickets for our big family - that's right, all of us - trip to see Michael's friends and family in Toledo. We are going!

After much preparation, Jim and Ann put their house on the market a few days ago, and being Michael's childhood home (for the most part), we are going up to say goodbye to it. While there, we will also be saying a big hello to our newest baby nephew Cole, whom we have not met face-to-face. I know his cousin Stella will enjoy playing with him. We all look forward to witnessing that. Big play is certainly in order!

Also, Michael's friends Sean and Nicki (husband and wife) and Bill (Lone Ranger) will be on the list of must-see's. Michael and I stayed with Sean and Nicki when we went up two July's ago to meet Michael's parents, and Bill, as some of you might remember, was the sweet but hairy adventure that partook in our wedding in December 2005.

We will go to the beautiful Toledo Zoo, which is truly a part of the experience that is Michael's family and potentially Cedar Point, if we can make it work.

More news about our big trip as it comes. If you have input about flying with small children, we'd love to hear it. The flights (American Airlines both ways) are about 5-6 hours with one connection. I am terrified, and our seating, as it stands, is HORRIBLE.

We leave July 3 in the early p.m. and will return July 10th late, late.

One Day in Our Marriage.

I took off my wedding ring today because it was bothering me. Underneath the bright metal cinch, there is a band of sad, dry skin and a pink dotted sore left-of-center. Like it hasn't seen the light, was my first thought. Suffocated skin. Like a bed sore or sun weathered parade of unhappy cutaneous cells. Funeral parade. This is the place where life leaves me - this tiny inch of skin. Just thoughts.

It would be unfair to say that marriage is harder than anyone told me. Why didn't anyone warn me about this? How many times have I complained about that? But in moments, I believe that the little blasts of white gold and diamond just might symbolize the status of my on-again-off-again affair with monogamy. It only seems to itch, sting, be too tight when I feel stuck, pinned, terrified, uncertain. Hello Doubt, welcome home. It is like a far-too-fancy marriage mood ring.

The instruction card might say, Note to ring operator: Itching = anxiety. Stinging = hurt. Too tight = flee, flee, flee.

When I got engaged, the ring, diamond encrusted, timeless, was too big. It swung loosely on my finger. I felt dainty. I had room to grow. And it was heavy, so when the weight of the band twisted along, pushed up against my knuckle, I remembered there was love. I always knew. And I was safe in it's circle. The ring or the love?

In reality, I'm just 15 pounds heavier than I used to be. The ring is tight because I am fatter. Duller because I am lonelier. My marriage has not changed too much from the very first day I accepted one brave man's proposal.

We have grown, learned, survived, become cautious but we are - together and apart - essentially the same as before.

I wish I could say that this piece will end well. Not knowing where my husband is this evening and knowing exactly where I put my ring, I predict there is no ever-after ending here today. But maybe tomorrow that shriveled skin, little itchy spot, extra water weight on my finger might allow for a more peaceful, sure marriage. Maybe I'll get the old toothbrush out to scrub up the diamonds, my polishing cloth to buff up the metal.

Polishing cloth for my marriage?

So there is always hope. As they say, tomorrow is another day.

a GRRRR mommy moment.

It hurt.

In the moment, I imagined it as a tiny number six bear trap slapping shut, piercing white hurt through the layers of my forearm. Shit!

I looked down at him, his tiny three year-old hands, nails digging into me, breaking the skin. I heard his frustrated screaming. I imagined the bear in me screaming. Damn hunters. Damn angry three year-olds. But he was my son. I gave him a good swat on the butt - my son - I hadn’t thought about it. I walked away.

Caught. Panicked. “Stay in your room until you are calm and sweet. Mommy doesn’t want to spend time with little boys who hurt her. Mommies play with sweet little boys.”

Face stinging with guilt, breast an anxious blue bird flutter, hand dreading its misbehavior, I stalked back to the kitchen and padded left and right in front of the stove. He was in his room.

He was screaming. He was in shock, little bear. Him or me?

“Calm and sweet,” I called in my best I’m-in-control voice. Joke. It was more of a plea for everyone to find quiet. Times like these come in sudden shots of wind – blow right through us, our house, carry away our reservations like loose leaves. It takes mommies a minute to find their loose leaves.

There is quiet. I’m in front of his door, having flown there in search of my parental-state-of-mind. My arm is purple from his sharp snare. Poor bear. Him or me?

“Calm and sweet?” Yes, I am. I stand against the door, the tree between the gaze of a hunter and the prey. I wait.

“Yes, Mommy. Come in, please.” There was such a hug like you’ve never seen before - bear hug, a sorry hug. Kisses for bruises, for sore bottoms.

Forgive me.

“Mommy was frustrated, wasn’t she?” He nods. “Mommy can be a real bear when she gets frustrated, huh?”

He kisses me and pats my hair. “I’m sorry, Mommy.” There are tears on his pink face, tears like raindrops.

“Mommy was wrong to pop your butt. I’m sorry, too. It was not right. I should have used my words, huh?” He nods and strokes my hurt arm with his softest paw.

A beast and boy reconcile, perfect friends, wounds forgiven.

Happy Father's Day - Early

He Didn’t Arrive With Video Games: The Story of Our True Gamer Dad.
By Jennifer Shaw

When I met my husband, I knew he was a gamer: video games, RPGs, classic board games. I thought it was cute. I encouraged it. It was an endearing quirk, this love of games.

Who wants to make and raise children with a partner with no ability to lose himself in play? This is great.
I wanted to spend my life with the man, I wanted him to help raise my son, and so when he moved in, I knew to some extent I would have to love the tangled miles of controller cords and the speaker wire lines all over my living room walls. We talked about it for weeks before – not the moving in but the great presence of the game.

I don’t think you can handle my video games.

And so he arrived without them. And weeks passed. All of his smelly man stuff was scattered around the house. There were the speaker wires, the TV looming over my one year-old son like Ragnarok But no system. Then, in week four, it arrived.

My Duck Hunt fantasies vanished.

There were hours of machine guns in my living room. Bomb blasts kept me up late at night. And though it was amusing to watch him either jumping around cussing General RAMM after the kids went to bed or breaking into a concentrated sweat under the careful gaze of my son, I was so not prepared.

And then: will you play with me? I thought of my adolescent love affair with Mario and my college fling with Grand Theft Auto. I have yet to participate. But my son knows about the game. He watches his dad play Oblivion. Davrik’s your dude, Dad. If I didn’t shake them both out of their pixilated comas, they would spend entire days together, picking through goblin-ridden villages, bow and arrow at-the-ready.

A marriage, one daughter, hours of games and three years later, the man is still the best gamer and best dad I know. We talk about purchasing systems like people talk about purchasing cars. It is dinner table talk. He relentlessly keeps me informed about everything from patches to game releases to mini-dramas unfolding with gaming buddies.

Within a month of our daughter’s birth, he photographed her on her prettiest pink blanket with a 360 headset and controller. Months later, the only way she falls asleep is in the roar of the most coveted release, calmed by the invariable bounce of his arms as he pounds buttons. A concerned wife – concerned for the weekly video game quota not met – asks, Oh, honey, why don’t you put her down?

True gamer answer: But I like holding her like this.

So they sit together. And watching this most intimate moment, I’m sure our children will only grow in the arms of our gamer dad, the Frank West of our family, our lives. After much transition, understanding and eventual admiration, he just might get me in to run a level or two at his side.

Good game, guys.

(Sumbitted in this posted and shortened version on June 5th to Xbox Live's contest for Gamer Dad of the Year).