When I was 7 years old, my mother was dealing with mental disorders. Her moods and personalities changed. At times she’d physically hurt me, and later she’d be in tears. Some days she seemed fine. It was confusing for a child. I once saw her on the railings outside of our 10th floor apartment threatening to jump. My mother admitted herself for a psychiatric evaluation. My father cared for her after she was discharged. My aunt watched over me during this time. Eventually, my mother recovered and was able to manage her moods, but that period of time left an impression on me.
I learned about my mother’s mental disorders from my father later on in life. Her official diagnosis was manic depression (now known as Bipolar Disorder). Looking back she exhibited behavior that was more than bipolar disorder. Doctors would prescribe various medications. According to my father, my mother reacted negatively to many medications like lorazepam. She also had insomnia and would be awake for days. It seemed like every time she found a medication that worked, eventually it stop working. Then she’d try another medication and repeat that cycle over again.