The Hard Question

Last night, my 7 year-old daughter came to me, and asked about the "cause" of Bipolar Disorder.

She wanted to know (in the 2nd grade vernacular) if Bubbo (Ryan) had Bipolar because one of my parents gave it to him, like a cold, or if he just "catched it" on his own.

Wow.

I don't think I was giving my girl enough credit. She is obviously way more perceptive than I thought.

So I promptly called the only person I could think of to help me navigate this egg-shell laden path: my mom. She insisted on Face-timing with the inquisitive mind, and tearfully explained that neither she nor Poppy was responsible for Ryan's mental illness.

This made my heart happy, to hear the answer to a question that burned deep down in my own mind.

I have silently wondered for years if they blamed themselves.

The next biggest question I have, now that that one is answered, is if I blame myself.

Now, I know that it is genetically impossible for ME to have "caused" Ryan's BPD.

But the lingering guilt is from the nagging feeling that I didn't do enough to help. And if I didn't do enough to help, did I hinder progress in treatment?

 

I don't know a single person who gets along with their sibling 100% of the time. I surely didn't.

But over the passed two and a half years, Ryan and I had more laughs than fights.

Before Ryan was diagnosed, there was a brief period where we were constantly bickering. Not the "I'm never going to speak to you again" type, but the "you are wrong and I am right" variety.

Looking back, I feel that I wasn't as mature as I should have or could have been. I didn't have to argue or prove my points. I didn't have to.

Did my restless desire to be right 100% of the time push Ryan into the psychotic meltdown that led to his BPD diagnosis? Did I somehow "help" the spiral in it's downward decline? Am I to blame?

 

Who's to say?

All I can do now in Monday-Morning-Quarterback the situation and try to move forward, navigating the pieces of my broken heart with transparency and humility.

And do my best to answer the difficult questions in my heart, and the hearts of my two innocent children.

And hope that I can figure out how to glorify God through it all.

 

Thanks for reading,

 

--Julie--

Validation

A million times over, I have wished my brother to return. To magically appear in front of me, flesh and blood... REAL...

And a million and one times I am disappointed to open my eyes and grapple with the fact that he is not now nor will he ever return to this earth with a heartbeat.

Today is one of those days that I am struggling silently with grief and hope. I miss my brother so bad, that I am sure the tears that are falling are tears of blood- having exhausted all of it's water, my body is pouring my life from my very eyes.

Of course it's not, but this is how it feels. 

 Like a slowly sinking Titanic, I am drowning in my own life.

Ryan was the biggest source of validation in my life. The only one to ever tell me "good job" without the "but" on the end.

Ryan, in his own crazy way, was a life raft sent straight from Heaven to keep me afloat. Ryan "got" me. He understood our parents. He knew just what to say to me, when no one else in the world who ever thought that they knew me, could. He knew how I worked, and how I interpreted things. He humored me when I was emotional. In a very real sense, he was a part of me.

Without him, there seems to be a hallow and uncertain void. A bleakness to life.

It feels like I am walking through the wilderness.

In my own head, this bleak despair is compounded by isolation.

No one "gets" me, now.

No one understands the grief, or knows what to say.

But One.

 

As God watched from the Throne, His very Own Son was nailed by my sin to the cross.

And to comfort me, He rose His Son from the emptiness.

From the abyss, to give me hope in a future with Him.

 

Hope.

That word sounds so small compared to the tragedy of mental illness and suicide.

Hope.

The word speaks volumes to every situation, every trial, and every loss.

Hope.

The single syllable is etched forever in the hearts of the Believer, a foundation for a faith in God.

Without hope, there is no future, faith, or freedom from the consequences of sin.

I am a prisoner to hope, refusing to believe it is not there. Clinging to every letter, to keep even just the top of my head from sinking.

 

So when you see me cry, don't turn away and shun my sadness.

Let me spill these tears of hope, tears of grief, and tears of unwavering faith in a God who loves even the most broken in all the world.

And if you are brave, tell me that you have this hope too.

 

--Julie--