During my childhood, my mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
It had been frequently misdiagnosed for years beforehand, and it wasn’t a sudden diagnosis – but the diagnosis was still overwhelming in itself.
I worried about her, whether she’d change, whether our family would change. Would she be okay? Was it my fault?
Of course it wasn’t my fault; there was nothing I could do. I wished there was something I could do, of course. I tried my best to understand and to help. I knew I couldn’t take it all away from her. But I could try to make things easier. Remind her that I loved her, that I was there for her.
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