One thing I am constantly worried about is what my daughter will think of me.
One day she will find out that I take pills to keep me healthy, and a talk will occur.
One day she will find out that those pills are for a mental illness, and a talk will occur.
One day she will find out that mental illness is bipolar, and yet another talk will occur.
When I was a kid, any kind of negative information I could put in my quiver to launch at my parents at the opportune time, was gold. And boy will Jocelyn have a laundry list to choose from. “You’re too dumb to get out of bed” “You never help mom and go to bed early” “You should be doing adult things but instead you act like a kid”. I can see it all coming in the fiery passion of our first fight about a broken curfew, or poor grades.
To make matters worse, I may have passed on my bipolar, or at least depression to my daughter. Much like my mother did to me. My mother and I didn’t get a long too well, and a lot of it is because we suffered from similar things and a lot of it was because I had so much dirt on her. I knew just what buttons to push to chop her down to size when she needed it (or when I thought so), and instead of commiserating our shared diseases together, I denied I had any and played coy with her own.
It was a pathetic way to live my life and I regret it every single day.
But what about Jocelyn. Will she be more merciful than I? Will she understand my plight, or will she destroy me in the same ways I disowned my mother for long periods of her life. Will she use my disease against me or will she be kindhearted and appreciate me for who I can be beside the disease?
Only time will tell.