My son was building with Legos yesterday, I think they were “shoe ships” (whatever that is), and he wanted to know what color I’d like to be. I looked at them and said, “blue” and he says, “That’s a good choice mom. It reflects your personality”, (and yes, he does talk like that even at nine). I’m like, “what do you mean?”, and he says, “tranquil and meditative”.

So, I asked him when he noticed the difference. He thought about it and told me around two months ago. I stood there and I counted backwards. I got out my mood chart (goofy but definitely effective) and sure enough it was all there… in plain purple. Two months ago was when I stopped being controlled by my emotions and started living again.

I remember what it felt like then, how good it was to finally be in control. I guess I take it for granted now and I shouldn’t. Things got really, really bad there for a while. I doubted my own sanity! I kept telling people, “I’m controlled by my emotions” and all I would hear back was, “Well don’t be so sensitive”.

Funny, it took 4 years, 3 doctors, 2 therapists and then someone had an idea of what was going on with me. I had two sessions with my current counselor and she knew. Now that’s something I won’t soon forget, the look on her face when I came in freaking out. Her face drained of color and she stood there with this shocked expression that said something like, “Okay, she’s really flipped her lid. Just keep it together. You’re a professional here”. And me, I just kept saying over and over, “I don’t want to do this, God I don’t want to do this, I know there’s something there, and I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this…”

What followed was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, walking into an urgent care psychiatric facility and pouring out every little private detail about my past history. It was right up there with crossing the Atlantic on a 46 foot sailboat in the middle of November (another great tale), but the important thing right now is that my son recognizes the difference. He sees the real me.

There’s still a long way to go to rebuild. It took years for bipolar to drag me into this hell hole. I’m giving myself at least 1 year to get out. That sounds so good to me. Just thinking about that year is like sipping on some exotic drink out of a coconut while lying on a beach in some tropical island. I can feel it all through my body and deep down into my bones… the calm, cool relief of being alone.