Recently a group of my friends from Church and I started an emotional wellness support group. The goal of the group was to bring to light our individual struggles with various forms of depression. It was extremely helpful to share stories and motivate each other. I have personally suffered from Bipolar Disorder most of my life. I look for every opportunity to understand the illness and conquer the symptoms.
People who suffer from mental illnesses react differently to situations than people who are able to “let stress roll off their back.” There are significant experiences in my life that trigger manic episodes and as I look back on those experiences, I am able to see the point where I finally pulled out of the depression and I can learn from it. I advise anyone going through similar problems to use this method to gain more perspective regarding their illness.
One significant situation from my youth is the absence of my biological father. He chose to leave my mother and I when I was about two years old. He would reappear every so often with a bucket full of promises for the future that never came to pass. It really did a number on me emotionally. There’s an old Dolly Parton song, “Here you come again, and here I go…” This is a good illustration of how I felt. I had a strong desire to have a relationship with him, but it just wasn’t meant to be. My father, most likely had good intentions, and many members of his family have told me he felt guilty for not playing a role in my life.
I remember the way my father always smelled. He was a big fan of Old Spice cologne. This was the mid 1970’s so I guess that wasn’t as odd then as it sounds right now. It was a significant smell. When I was about five years old it had been several months since I had seen or heard from my father. Christmas was approaching and out of the blue I got a call from him. He told me he was in California, but he was making his way back to Alabama for Christmas and he bought me the brightest and most beautiful fire truck. I couldn’t wait. I had missed him so much, even though my Step-Dad was really good to me, it was going to be great to see my “real Dad” as I mistakenly called him back then. After I talked with him on the phone I begged my mother to let me buy him a Christmas present. We went to the local TG&Y and of course I picked out Old Spice for him.
Christmas Eve arrived and I sat on the steps of our trailer with the gift wrapped Old Spice on my lap. Where we lived on the Cove Road, you could hear cars coming a mile away and every time I heard the sound of tires on the asphalt, I would perk up thinking that just might be him in his old blue Chevy Nova. Needless to say the day expired and he never showed. It’s hard to understand what an anxiety attack feels like if you have never had one. It’s one of the worst feelings a person can have, imagine it happening to a five year old. I threw such a fit that my mother got so angry with me she took the present and put it up in the top of a closet and told me that if I didn’t stop crying, she wouldn’t let me give it to him, even if he came.
The next day was Christmas. No word from my father. His sister, who I affectionately called Aunt Wormy came to visit, but she had not heard from him. She attempted to comfort me and spoiled me with gifts as always. I found consolation in my relationship with her for his absence. Late in the day, I was back on the door steps sitting and waiting, standing up at the sound of tires on the asphalt. This time my mother wouldn’t allow me to sit there with the Old Spice in my lap. She was infuriated with him and frustrated with me. I was heartbroken, thus the onset of a major depressive episode. They didn’t know what to call it back then. The symptoms however were constant crying, headaches, and stomach aches. It always resulted in a trip to the doctor, who always declared me as “fine.” In turn, I would usually get in trouble for this behavior. It is hard enough for adults to put their emotions into words. I am such a strong advocate for children who suffer from Bipolar disorder, depression, or ADD/ADHD, because imagine how difficult is for them to explain how they feel.
In the beginning of this story I promised you that I always tried to learn something from these episodes or experiences. After days of anger, sadness and frustration, I took a stool from the kitchen, climbed up in the closet and got down the box of Old Spice. With tears in my eyes I took it to my step-dad. It was so important for me to give that present to him because I needed to let go of the man who had already let go of me. He lit up when I gave him the box. My mother opened her mouth ready to pounce on me for getting the present down, and my Dad held his hand up and stopped her. He showed genuine enthusiasm as he opened it. It was just what I needed. It’s a simple lesson that when God closes one door he opens another.
Five years would go by before I saw my “real dad” again. Things were never the same. I was cold to him and he saw what time and distance had done to us as father and son. I would only see him three more times in 15 years. He passed away when I was 25. To this day I don’t understand men who don’t have relationships with their children. You just never know what damage you might do.
Despite a history full of manic depressive episodes I continue to fight and I continue to write. The only way to conquer an enemy is to build an army against it. I am thankful God has given me the personal resolve to speak about my battle and the friends to encourage and motivate me. There is no sad ending to this story, there is victory and accomplishment, by the grace of God, the battle is always won.
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