An Unquiet Mind

The legacy often left by the generations before us is of their deeds or accomplishments. The legacy of those who came before me is one of differing levels of madness. As far back as I am aware of in my family tree, there are stamps of instability. My great-grandparents aim for a better life and decide to settle in America of all places. That is a screaming sign of insanity if I ever saw one. Their better life being one of immense poverty and more children than they could possibly care for. The closer the family tree gets to the trunk, that is to say closer to me, the more the madness begins to get more clinical. My grandmother had fits of immense rage to cope with her failing mind. Throwing canned goods at the heads of anyone nearby so that someone might share in her misery. My parents told me she died when I was a very small girl, only that was a complete lie. Another leaf of insanity on the tree of my lineage. They thought it better she be dead to me than attempt to give any sort of explanation of what Alzheimer’s disease was. My maternal grandmother hid her madness much better. Dulling it with three to four Scotch and waters before and after mealtimes compounded by many decades. My mother followed in her mother’s footsteps and attempted to manage her insanity with substances. All that did was enhance it, and ultimately what cut her life short. My mother, along with the help of my father, gifted me the Bipolar Disorder gene when they decided to procreate. There was a clinical name for her madness and was more dangerous than the instability of generations before her. My mother would call her parents, saying she had my grandfather’s shotgun and was going to shoot herself. Only when they returned home from their vacation early in complete anguish, she was calm and collected and laughed at their worry. My mother adopted her addiction as part of her madness. My father showcased to me how wonderful the highs could be and how terrible the lows could leave you. As a little girl my dad either loved being around me and my brother, or slept the entirely of the weekend of which the custody agreement called for. He was either bursting with love and affection for me or spitting such acidic vitriol in my face I had to turn away to save my skin from burning. I have superseded my relatives before me. I am a first generation mental hospital patient. I am the amalgamation of the madness of those who came before me. I am my parents’ daughter. I have prolific highs and lows so deep they are their own abyss. I am trying to grow where my predecessors numbed. I am not drinking or using drugs, nor am I doubling the problems and passing them onto unsuspecting children. My madness is a part of me. I do not survive in spite of it, but because of it. My madness and I coexist and create together. I am not running.