“Were you bipolar growing up?” a magazine editor asked me the other day.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think you were misdiagnosed back then as depressed?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I wasn’t annoyed. I wasn’t rushed. I just really don’t know.
I can clearly say that something was wrong with me, but I’m very careful to throw the “bipolar” word around when it pertains to kids given all the debate today on the topic.
Friends of mine rant on another friend for medicating their daughter for bipolar disorder, who, according to the friends’ eyes, is perfectly fine.
And then I hear the sadness and utter frustration of another friend whose bipolar daughter was just expelled from school.
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Well, I would argue that we’ve gone too far in the other direction when it comes to judging parent behavior. I spent considerable time in a child psych ward (not as a patient, I might add) and the majority of the children who were in this particular hospital were there due to growing up in absolute family chaos – nasty divorce, mom or dad or both parents are addicts, lots of boyfriends/girlfriends coming in and out, parents are children themselves, parents screaming at each other all the time, etc. There were rare exceptions, however.
Most of the children were struggling because they were living in a very unstable environment. But, rather than hold the parents accountable for their behavior, the children were just diagnosed with bipolar disorder and loaded up with drugs. Mom and dad got a free pass to continue with their destructive behavior.
I think we must hold parents (even those who love their children) accountable when their actions cause harm.
One of my earliest childhood memories is one of self-injurious behavior. Or, more accurately, it was of it being pointed out to me – there is little doubt in my mind I had been doing “it” for months, perhaps years beforehand. Though it is hard to tell, I was somewhere between the ages of four and six. I was feeling humiliated (about what, I do not recall) and, without much thought, began to drag my nails up and down – and up and down – my arm to the point that blood spilled from one of the scratches. My mother was horrified; more so when, after she demanded I stop, I, very nonchalantly, told her “but it makes the pain go away”. She told me that they sent people who did “that” away. I didn’t even fully understand what she was saying and the images that crept into my mind were frightening; I recall imagining a massive, red, High Victorian-Gothic styled building surrounded by black, metal gates (I have no idea how, or why, this is what came to me). Her intentions were good, and her anxiety came from a place of love; but I can’t help feel a pang of grief upon remembering it, as, without a doubt, it was one of those pivotal events in teaching me that what I was doing – what I was feeling – was shameful and somehow made me unworthy or less.
That is my clearest memory; however, looking back upon things now, there were many such incidents that can now be interpreted as signs of early-onset psychiatric illness: incidents of anxiety, panic, obsessions, compulsions, depression, rage, paranoia, delusion, hallucination, self-injurious behavior, and, yes, hopelessness. These are the most obvious symptoms. For years now, however, I have been looking back trying to identify and fill in the manic sector of my diagnosis – Schizoaffective Disorder – and have come up with less. I recall periods that, in stark contrast to the ones formerly described, were marked by recklessness, risk taking, impulsive behavior, confidence and irritability. Not only, however, were such potential symptoms mild; but my memory is far too blurred and hazy to recall if it was set apart from my neurotypical peers.
Claire, I must agree with you to a certain extent. We have swung too far in the other direction. Though I believe many of my symptoms to be organic and genetic by nature, my childhood was also painful, dysfunctional and chaotic. My father was dependent on crack cocaine and verbally abusive; my mother, despite good intentions and an overwhelming supply of love, was anxious and emotionally unstable; they ensured that my attachment was highly disorganized, with my primary source of comfort either being frightening or frightened. I was sexually abused for seven years – only coming out about it after my 12th Birthday – and bullied rather severely, as well. My mother has, essentially, been excused of all fault or guilt by most professionals. They are not directly responsible for the Schizoaffective Disorder; but they, and my other abusers, certainly contributed to – and blatantly caused – a good portion of the anxiety, interpersonal difficulties, withdrawal and Post Traumatic Stress. Organic, no-fault Childhood-Onset Mental Illness does exist; but, before medicating and/or diagnosing any child, the presence of these factors needs to be thoroughly explored. I do, however, see it at least beginning to come back to center.
Erika