By JENNIFER HALLEY Copy Editor
Do you know what it feels like to have your mind spinning, somersaulting out of control with thoughts, at such a high intensity, it drives you nearly crazy? Do you know what it feels like to spend gross amounts of money without having any control in the decisions that prompted you to do so? And to feel that gut-wrenching guilt that comes with it? Or to sleep with a knife under your pillow because you’re swallowed up in a thick, wet blanket of black that consumes you?
Yeah, I don’t either.
But my sister does. My beautiful, baby sister. She knows what it feels like to lay in a steep, heavy darkness, with its fingers at her throat, her own fingers clutching a knife buried under her pillows that, with one clean sweep, could end it all – silence everything. She knows how much it affects every aspect of her life to spend and spend and spend and then lay in a dried-out pool of funds and embarrassment. And every day still, she knows too well the screaming thoughts in her head that try to consume her every move and sometimes, do.
Medication. Therapy. More medication. Diet. Exercise. Get enough sleep. Be healthy.
Don’t smoke weed. Don’t drink. Don’t. Do. Don’t. Do. These things are pushed on her constantly, in an effort to manage her Bi-polar disorder. Every day is a struggle for my baby sister.
But every day is also another day my sister gets up and faces this invisible illness – staring it valiantly in the face – which rears its ugly head every possible second it can. She’s insightful, intelligent, hard-working and beautiful – a beauty that radiates from within. She’s got deep dimples and big blue eyes. Who couldn’t adore her?
I didn’t, at one point. In fact, I was so angry with her I convinced myself I hated her. But it is impossible, as I’ve come to realize, to hate someone that is such a part of you. That hatred you feel is just an aching love that clutches your insides.
My sister and I were the best of friends growing up. We played with each other day in and day out; as punishment – instead of swallowing soap or weeding – mom would separate us, not allowing us to play with one another for the whole day, which made us incredibly distraught. Luckily, we were cute kids and mom would give in. But still! The thought of being apart for a whole day! We were inseparable.
Fast forward a decade or so to my second year of college and her senior year in high school: the sweet, innocent, sensitive, gentle baby sister was replaced with an angry, careless, spiteful girl who treated her family with contempt and hate. She could not have cared less, in my eyes. She stayed out late, made risky decisions and slept very little. She was withdrawn and furious. As her senior year continued, she began cutting herself and sleeping with a knife under her pillow. You couldn’t talk to her without the conversation turning sour; her mood swings were a light switch. We all had to walk on eggshells around her.
I was so angry. With her. At her. Each decision she made was, in turn, hurting our parents, hurting me. My parents spent hours, days, weeks – that whole year – tirelessly trying to help her when she didn’t want it. They were exhausted and it made me so mad. How could she do this to our parents, her family? Admittedly, I thought she was doing it for attention. Or to be rebellious. I thought she was being so selfish.
Bipolar disorder never even crossed my mind, or my parents’ mind.
As her senior year drew to a close, and she went off to college, her life was a continual spiral. And I worried. I worried so much. She had free reign now: no parents to watch over her every move, no rules, no curfew, no sisters to meddle in her business. None of that. I was so afraid she was going to get addicted to drugs, raped at a party, or caught up with an abusive boyfriend. My baby sister was not a baby anymore and I couldn’t protect her anymore.
Now, at 22 years old, she is doing well. The sweet girl, who when she was younger and saw an ambulance whiz past us in the car, would say a quick prayer of protection, is back again. She has her moments and her days. I mean, we all do; we’re human. We get tired, stressed and cranky. But for a person like me who is not dealing with an invisible illness, that’s it. I get tired, stressed, irritable; sleepless nights can be remedied by a good night’s sleep the next night; moodiness can often be attributed to hormones. Stress is a result of work and school.
But to someone like my sister, a night of too-little sleep can result in a manic episode that sends her reeling back three steps. Missing a DAY’S dose of her medication? Five steps back. Small, meaningless decisions for us can be huge for my sister and can result in periods of anxiety that stall her from moving. You ever feel like you just can’t sometimes? Well, she feels that way far too often. Some days, She Just Can’t. She’s stuck in a whirlwind of anxiety and depression, thoughts crowding her brain and a fog which ways her down so hard.
She’s tried a variety of medications, seen an array of therapists and tries hard, every day, to manage her illness. And she is so incredibly strong for it. And so brave. So very, very brave.
According to nimh. nih.gov, mental disorders are common, affecting tens of millions of people each year. But only half of those affected receive treatment.
To my baby sister: I want to commend you for taking that HUGE step in trying, tirelessly, everyday, to figure out how to manage this illness that no one can see. I want to tell you I look up to you, so much, because you fight a battle I know nothing about and are still able to be funny, wonderful, kind and an amazing sister to me. You have bad days and good ones, both of which I think deserve acknowledgment. I will never know what it is like to walk a minute in your shoes, and I am sorry I could not protect you from this monster. But just know, that each and every day, through the thickest of thick and the thinnest of thin, I love you. I love YOU. Every part of you. You make me so proud, baby sister, and I hope you know that.
Bipolar disorder is a HARD one to live with – hard for everyone involved. And those who choose to do so, man, how beautiful are they? As I watch my sister blossom into an adult, into her own person, I think I’m beginning to understand what it means to struggle beautifully. She does it. Everyday she does it. And I’m a better person because of her.
So, I’ll say it again: I love you, baby sister. Forever and always.
