by Andrea Asa

Created on: June 18, 2010

Dear Mother,

When I was a little girl, I didn’t understand.  I didn’t know why you had such dramatic mood swings or why you’d turn violent at the drop of a hat.  I lived in fear of you, walking on eggshells.  As I grew older, I chalked it up to my misbehavior, or daddy’s being gone so often.  I made excuses for you.  Even after I learned that you had bipolar disorder and were under medicated and your disorder poorly controlled, I still didn’t really understand.  I thought you were crazy.  Yes, I used that actual word: crazy.

I didn’t talk much about it.  I was ashamed of you and your behavior.  It wasn’t until you mentioned electroshock therapy that the reality of your illness really began to sink in.  I grew up that night.  I shed tears while talking to you on the phone.  You were so scared, and I was scared for you.  It sounded so medieval.  You decided not to go through with it.  I understood.

That phone call was the turning point for our relationship.  We grew so close after that, and I took the initiative to really learn about your diagnosis.  I was so saddened to learn about your life’s history, many of the horrible things that had happened in your childhood, some of the things your own parents put you through.  I truly believe all those things played a role in your development of bipolar, even though it also had a biological basis.

I understood.  And that understanding was the basis of my love.  Once I truly understood you, I was truly able to love you, unconditionally, unwaveringly, and wholeheartedly.  It’s strange to think that it took so long for me to love my mother, but you were so very unlovable, and I was so very hurt by you.  That’s not to say I was never frustrated or angry with you after that.  You still had your manic moments where you talked a mile a minute without saying anything important, and those drove me crazy (there’s that word again).  You were also still unpredictable and violent and scary.

That was really the reason I didn’t call you that Sunday.  I’d talked to you a few days before, and you sounded sad, weary, exhausted.  You’d been ill for quite some time.  At the end of our phone call, we each said, “I love you,” and hung up.  I thought about calling you that Sunday, though, but I decided that

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