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Baby
Mine
by Diane MacKenzie
From Madness to
Misery |
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From Madness..... I sit here at my computer trying to
maintain some degree of calm. It is 7:17am on a cloudy Sunday morning.
It is cloudier inside of this trailer than it is outside. My son is
manic. Manic and, I dare say, scary sounding at the moment. This is apt
to change soon. I gave him his medicine, as soon as I got into the
kitchen. He is seated on the chaise lounge directly behind me for now.
He continually makes obscene noises, regardless of how many times I
calmly request that he stop. I can feel myself escalating. It is as if
there is a force, greater than my own common sense, trying to overrule
my nine years of experience. Trying to speak over the inner voice that
says, "Don't scream. It only makes it worse. Don't get up and shake
him. It will only send him reeling further into the madness." I am
fighting to keep the words that are so damaging to the both of us in
check. My throat burns and aches the way it does when I hold back tears.
I can hear the course of the day, in the maniacal laugh that escapes him
when I try to speak to him rationally. I chant the mantra in my head.
"You cannot rationalize with an irrational person." I repeat
it, silently, to myself again and again. I can feel it carrying me, to
an acceptance of the fact, that his condition is one that I cannot
change. It is something that I must ride out with him. The most that I
can do is protect myself, my daughters and my son from the entity that
has consumed him. He seems, at times to have no respect for life. I
desperately want someone here to help me...to take over when my coping
mechanisms fail. However, reality has been a hard, callous teacher. I
know that rarely happens. Sometimes, I think that it is easier to handle
when it is only me and him and the girls. No one has ever been able to
spend an inordinate amount of time with him and not change their opinion
of him. They always end up thinking that he is able to stop what he
hears and thinks and feels. Oft times, things that no one else can see
or hear or perceive. To most, he is the epitome of the
"disturbed" child. Unfortunately for him and for me, the
greater part of those who know him, see the "disturbed" issue
as a choice that he has made consciously. They are of the notion, that
he chooses to do the things that he does. If he does not
"choose" to do them, they are of the notion he is a product of
poor parenting or, worse yet child abuse. A choice few, have come to
terms with it but, only a few of those are able to deal with him
effectively enough to offer any kind of assistance. As a parent, I
constantly question my effectiveness and abilities. I second guess
myself to such a point, that I lie in the bed at night and stare at the
ceiling, wondering if there is a method that I have not yet tried. Words
that I have not yet said that will be the *end all cure all* to the ills
that plague his mind and my own. I think to myself that there might be
some miraculous herb or vitamin that would balance out the unstable
chemistry that affects his emotions and reactions. I am on a
never-ending quest for *our* grail. That one answer that would stop the
storm that rages on and on and wreaks havoc on the lives that we try to
lead. Leaving in its wake, a trail of hurt feelings, tears of anger and
pain and frustration, and exposes the darkest side of his nature and my
own at times. A side that lay dormant in the psyche until some
tremendous trauma exposes it or some unspeakable betrayal brings it
scratching and clawing to the surface. A face that most of us control
unless it becomes an element that is necessary for our survival. It is
the face that he wears everyday. ....To Misery It is 8:58am and we are
on the downward spiral. Rapidly slipping into the abyss of darkness that
seizes him, throughout the day. He is taking me with him. I don't want
to go and know that I shouldn't but, I am powerless to stop it on the
darkest days. In the coldest and bleakest hours, he cries. The aching,
mourning cry of grief and longing and despair. Tears for the boy that he
wants to be and the family that he wants to be a part of. It is in these
hours, when he seems to have no substance left. No source of strength to
draw on. I become his strength and I must carry him to ensure that he
does not get left behind in the rubbish and wreckage of the most recent
storm. It is every bit as exhausting for me, as it is for him. He must
learn to carry himself through it, eventually. I have begun to distance
myself from him, in increments that he can handle. A sudden drop would
be a blow too devastating for him to take. It would literally rip him
apart and leave him uncertain and unsure, of who and what he can rely
on. I have been accused of babying him...of making him a mama's boy. If
I am, then so be it. I cannot see him surviving any other way.
In the muck and mire of this pit, he struggles to find some comfort. The
futility of his efforts is seen in the repeated attempts he makes to
scale the slippery wall he continually slides back down. He takes baths
and changes clothes constantly. It is, as if he thinks, that by changing
his appearance he can become what he wants to be. He plays video games
for hours on end. He transforms pencils, pens, flashlights and
toothbrushes into ninja warriors. He pits them against one another, in
epic length battles, to see if the same one will win every time. When
those who are strangers, to this behavior bear witness to it, their
looks are of confusion and question. They seem to be silently asking why
I allow him to do these things, believing that if I stopped him it would
make it all vanish and he would be a *normal* child. I am sorry to tell
you that it doesn't work that way. I only wish that it would. How I long
for it to be that simple.
Most of all, it is the tears that distinguish this phase from the other.
The tears and the withdrawal. The times that he walks outside and plays
basketball alone. When he goes into his room and turns the radio up so
as to drown out the rest of the noises he can no longer tolerate. It is
when "Iris" by the GooGoo Dolls plays and I hear him sing with
all the power that he can muster...."And I don't want the world to
see me. Cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's
made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am...." that I
know that he understands how he is perceived. In these moments of
lucidity, I know that he sees himself through the eyes of those around
him......and he cries out in his soul, "If the only knew. If only I
could make them see." If they could see him through my eyes....they
could see the beauty that lies within. "Baby mine, don't you cry.
Baby mine dry your eyes. Rest your head...close to my heart, never to
part. Baby of mine."
About Diane
I am a poet by nature and a writer at heart....29yo
mother of three born in Memphis, TN on Halloween. I love to
write...poetry, articles, fiction, the whole shebang. I write for myself
and for anyone else who might be interested in my occasionally coherent
babble. Enjoy.....
Diane is a talented a gifted writer and her works
include many other venues besides Bipolar Children. She writes for
Themestream and her titles can be viewed (and rated!) at the following
url...Diane's
Articles
Please visit her there.
Diane can be reached by EMAIL
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