February 8th, 2012 
admin Rachel Pappas shares her touching story in her book, “Hopping Roller Coasters”. While I haven’t had time to read it just yet, I’m hoping to soon. Here is a little bit about her book:
Hopping Roller Coasters is about my daughter and me, both diagnosed
with bipolar disorder. I have not had an easy time, but Marina’s had a
rougher ride. Thirteen hospitalizations, five schools in five years,
and in between, two separate, year-long stays in a residential
treatment center.
My memoir shows and tells how I loved and abused my daughter. It’s
about our relationship; how my words and actions, compounded by her
own mental illness, recognized at age 11, affected her. And how all
these things affected us.
The story begins with my cancer diagnosis, then goes back in time,
telling the story in chronological order to show how we got to where
we are today. It’s much like a journal; in fact the chapters are
titled Hello Marina (her birth); One Year Old; Two Years Old, etc.
And I write it as honestly as if it were a journal that no one will
ever see.
But it’s not just narrated confessions; I replay the scenes … You’re
there when my sapphire-eyed, three-pound preemie first came to me.
You see my first-grader with the pixie cut running up the driveway
after she lost a tooth in school—literally lost it—and you read her
letter to the tooth fairy: “I lost my toth today. My techer and frends
and me tryd hard to find it. I tell the truth. Can I have a doler,
plese? Love, Marina.”
Later come the scenes that touch with sadness and humor on the issues
that anyone with mental illness, or close to someone with mental
illness, can relate to. Marina’s struggles in the classroom; me going
head to head with teachers who didn’t get it; Marina wasn’t lazy or
bad. Something was wrong and she needed help.
Me tearing my little girl to pieces emotionally and verbally when the
red hot flashes came on, and the wires in my head tightened then
popped. Later kissing Marina’s reddened tear-streaked cheeks and
swollen eyes, apologizing one more time. Seeing she wasn’t safe at
school, or home. Feeling sick to my stomach. Then doing it to her
again.
As adolescence comes on, Marina spinning out of control, crashing and
burning. The ambulance rides when she cut a little deeper, or
overdosed again, even after I’d locked up her pills. She’d been
cheeking them for a week, then swallowed the whole handful before
climbing the school bus stairs.
The weekly calls to get to school fast; racing my Honda down dark,
winding roads when she disappeared. The head banging and screaming
after another of our blowouts because by now she was even angrier than
me.
By the last third of the book, after years of pushing to find better
psychiatrists, better meds, better therapists for both of us—we are
starting to heal, slowly. That’s when my cancer diagnosis comes. And
my demons are out in full force. What have I done to this child of
mine? I need more time to make her better, make us better.
The rest of Hopping Roller Coasters is much about loving and being
loved, as it was from the first chapter. But the focus shifts when I
look my mortality in the eye. I see I have one more chance to get it
right, no matter how much longer I live. The story becomes about
forgiving and being forgiven. And it’s about moving forward.
It still isn’t easy; I still stall out then have to jump-start again.
But through many evolutions over time, it’s happening.
Some issues I touch on throughout the book:
· Challenges when both parent and child have mental illness.
· Trying to get better before you hurt your child worse. Seeking
help. The mind games you play with yourself to try and bring the reins
in.
· Dealing with the school system.
· Dealing with the mental health system.
· What it’s like to watch other kids laugh and grow, healthy and
happy, when your child is flailing.
· Dealing with your social circles when friends just don’t understand.
· Finding the humor in it all.
· Finding ways to get back up, keep on going, on your way to a
better place.
· Forgiveness.
I’ve included a few excerpts to help you get a feel for the voice and tone:
Excerpt 1:
Something wasn’t right. She would sit at the table laboring over her
homework for twenty minutes and still be on the first problem. She had
the hardest time staying within the blue lines on the paper. Her
letters were sprawled all over, and some of them were backwards. No
big deal, I thought. She’s just six. But sooner or later I’d lose
patience.
“Marina, erase that B,” I said pointing to the letter on her
worksheet. “It’s backwards.”
She erased it, but she lost her bearings. Couldn’t find the space on
the page where the backwards letter had been to try again.
“Here,” I said, pointing, brushing away the eraser crumbs, oblivious
to the exasperation and animosity in my tone. I went back to my work,
tired of this article that was taking way too long for what I was
getting paid. A few minutes later, Marina lost her place again.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shrieked. Are you BLIND?!”
Seeing red, I didn’t notice at first that she was sobbing softly.
Then I saw the drops roll down her cheeks.
“Mommy, my tears made a hole in the paper,” she said just above a
whisper. She waited to hear if she was in trouble, and my heart sunk.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “It’s okay.”
Excerpt 2:
“Marina, I asked you three times nicely to clean your room!” I said. I
injected plenty of attitude into nicely.
We were at it again, this time over the balled up clothes, water
bottles, and sticky wrappers everywhere. She wouldn’t budge. I dragged
the vacuum into her room.
“Come on. Let’s go,” I ordered.
She didn’t look up from her magazine, so I plunked my upright Hoover
closer to her, grabbed her hands, and wrapped them around the handle.
She knocked it over and stormed out, into the hall, with me on her
heels.
“Why are you so damn lazy? You live like trailer trash!” I fumed, not
hearing what I would have pegged as nasty and bigoted coming from
someone else.
Marina spun around. “Stop! Stop, or I’ll take you down the stairs!”
I froze in place, fixed on her hardened face and her once tiny body,
now bulky from the meds. I realized she could do it. She could take me
down the stairs if she wanted. Not until then had the thought of
Marina hurting me crossed my mind. Not for a second could I have
pictured it. I’d seen her angry, but never enraged like this,
screaming with her fists clenched.
I wondered where my little girl was. The one with the pixie cut who
let me hold her hand crossing the street. My good-natured “Pippster”
who accepted my excessive hugs and kisses into early puberty. The
sweet child who just last year smiled and told me “When you dropped
off my lunch today, my friend asked if you were my mom. She said
you’re pretty.”
I was losing her. No, I had lost her.
Excerpt 3:
It’s that time of year again, and the e-mails are funneling in from my
college friends, letting everyone know if and when they’re coming
camping. Of course everyone would be there. No one had missed this
long-standing tradition in twenty years. But they’re elaborating on
their itinerary—when they’re coming, how many of their crew would be
en tow, and why. The details were always about their kids—their gifted
and talented offspring.
Janet and Dave would be late because Bill was playing, not just in a
varsity football game, but in the state championship. And Karen
wouldn’t be tagging along because she’s speaking at the National Honor
Society Conference; it’s a big ordeal.
Normally I was up for rendezvousing with the college clique, knowing
moms will be moms. We’re bred to bear children, then brag about how
sensational they are. But this year I was relieved that we’d be at a
family reunion while everyone else hung out in the mountains of
Thurmont. I wouldn’t have to sit mute as the women shared their
stories around the fire pit—half wishing I was with the guys playing
quarters at the local watering hole where they’ve been detailed to
pick up pizzas.
One night I asked Paul, “Did you ever notice that most of the gang
doesn’t ask about Marina? Do you think it’s just that they don’t think
to? Or do you think they feel awkward?”
“Probably a little of both,” he said. “Maybe they aren’t sure we’re
comfortable talking about it and don’t want us to feel uneasy.”
“Yeah, if you’ve never experienced it, it’s probably hard to know what
to think. Mental illness has such a stigma attached to it. I wonder if
they picture her jumping up and down and peeing in corners or
something.”
My husband laughed. “I’m thinking maybe this Christmas we should send
a card like the ones we get from friends highlighting their kids’
accomplishments that year. Only we could say something like, “Well,
Marina’s in jail again. But there’s a silver lining—she’s in detox,
and we’re convinced she’s going to do it this time. Meanwhile, her
kids are in great foster care homes while she does her time in the big
house. Oh, she has four of them now.”
He’s got me going, feeling better. I’m okay with just listening the
next time the Mommy talk starts.
Visitors:
If you would like to learn more about bipolar disorder in order to better understand this mental illness, please visit http://allaboutbipolar.com/types-of-bipolar/.
If you would like to help with Bipolar Disorder Awareness Month, please visit http://allaboutbipolar.com/category/bipolar-awareness-month/. Please consider hosting one of our banners during the month of February. To submit your story to be shared during the month of February, please email it to support@allaboutbipolar.com. Thanks so much for your support! Education is key to raising awareness and dispelling myths concerning bipolar disorder.
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