Pick Oranges
I decided to write a memoir because I was trying to make sense of two colliding identities: clinical social worker and psychiatric patient. Traumatic memories of being held up at gunpoint and earlier difficult experiences also motivated me to use prose as a therapeutic modality.
Then, my eldest child began to experience many of the same symptoms I had in earlier years. What started as a memoir and reckoning of my diagnosis became a much more layered and nuanced tale of a family’s experience with trauma, mental illness, acceptance, and love.
At first I want to say that the hardest thing for me to write about was the many moments in the book where I discover that my eldest child is struggling or suffering. However, those words came out of me in a rush of intense emotion and the need for the expression of my pain. The hardest thing for me to write about was actually the depiction of suicidal thoughts and self-harming behaviors. I struggled because I didn’t want to lapse into victim mode, nor did I want those sections to read as sensationalized. What became most helpful was the characterization of the two states of mind I most often inhibited (Crazy Girl and Hovering Clinician). This externalization helped me to write about those darkest moments and allowed me to feel more removed from the experiences.
One piece of advice i would give to someone struggling with bipolar disorder is: don’t give up. Surround yourself with people who support you. Reach out for help even if you’re embarrassed, ashamed, or indifferent. Obtain a psychiatrist or Psych NP who listens and is willing to work with you to find answers. Connect with a therapist who is willing to be available to you for crises outside of normal office hours. Keep insisting that you are worthy of support and remember that you are not your illness.
I want readers to know that despite the societal pressure many of us feel to be perfect, imperfection is the reality and acceptance of self will open new paths for you while perfectionism becomes a tighter and more cramped prison cell. We can make mistakes with our lives and take paths that in hindsight we wish we’d never walked, but if we can lean into our understanding of ourselves and stop calling ourselves imperfect failures, we can find peace in little slips of time and in the most mundane of ways.
I miss the orange tree we left behind at our old house because the tiny moments of cupping the fruit and turning it with the perfect amount of pressure, orange blossom in my nose, warm sun on my back, made the release of citrus into my palm a moment of absolute contentment.
