Baby Mine
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 Baby Mine
by Diane MacKenzie

From Madness to Misery


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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