I Can't Erase the Past -- I Learned So Much From It

Our daughter celebrates her birthday each June. I can't help but measure her birthdays with an equal sense of apprehension and elation. She's a teenager now, and still no sign of the brooding, the polarity, the darkness that descended on my husband like Portland's thick gray clouds in January, refusing to budge. Yes, she has his intellect but she also has my relatively sunny nature. She is physically stunning with long, muscular legs and a waist that defies her voracious appetite. She has David's European cheekbones. The color of her skin is his. Her ears have the same shape. There are times I find myself staring at one of her features for too long. She bats me away, "Mom, enough." I missed much of the unfolding of my husband's mental illness. By the time I'd pieced together the puzzle of who David was, he was falling apart. Just six weeks after a formal diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and one day after his release from a Portland psychiatric hospital, David drove to one of the most beautiful places in Oregon and ended his life. After David's death, I'd read every book I could get my hands on about bipolar disorder. I'd measured the likelihood of a genetic inheritance against the things I could influence -- Sophie's diet, her sleep, exercise, a sense of well-being and unconditional love. She is just fine, so far. Becoming aware of our family's genetic vulnerabilities was painful, but it provided a unique gateway to focus on our genetic strengths, and Sophie has inherited a...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news