My dad was a psychiatrist. People always used to ask me if I told my father all my problems. I'd say, why yes, I tell him: "Dr. M., I hate my father." In the "physician, heal thyself" department, my father suffered from bipolar disorder, or what we called manic depression at the time. He was in the loony bin for about six weeks when I was 12. My main concern was that my parents would divorce. It was 1976, that was the deal in those days.
Dad died almost eight years ago. Mom was a psychiatric nurse for a while, then became a nurse administrator and did some consulting before she retired. She lives not too far from me, and after some years of tension we're starting to move back toward each other. But of course, all my problems are her fault.
I have two kids. The Boy will be 14 this month. He has hydrocephalus and a host of strange social and emotional delays. He is taking the medication commonly given for bipolar disorder and it seems to be helping him. But his shrinks can't say for sure that he's bipolar. It does, however, run in families.
The Girl is 10. She is more or less "normal," but has some strange anxieties, like the fear of sleeping away from her own bed. This makes vacations very trying, and it also makes the sweet respite of sleepovers at friends' and relatives' homes impossible. She's in an anxiety group now, it hasn't helped much yet.
What's wrong with me, you may ask? Too much to go into now.
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