When I lost my father, I also lost his acceptance of who I am as a person. While trying to accept his death, I’m slowly learning how to accept myself, and my diagnoses, too.

Others’ Grief

Grief and loss are universal. Every single human on the planet will suffer some form of bereavement in their lifetimes and surely hopes to find ways to endure. As a person with bipolar, I haven’t a clue how others do that, how they experience grief, because I can’t.

In the months before my dad’s death, my sister’s teen son became chronically ill, and my brother and his family were in their own crisis and transition. My dad leaving only added to the strain both families were already under. My husband lost his mom last winter; his grief is among the most unique I’ve seen. I have friends who’ve lost parents and siblings, their sorrow palatable. And I have other pals also disabled, who suffer other than me, as their challenges differ substantially. And there’s always Mom.

I write this to note that though family members and friends may not have mental health challenges, they, too, have stress, struggles, damage, and heartache—even when it doesn’t involve death. And then, when a great loss occurs, they, too, must figure it all out over time. They, like me, still hurt, lament what was, and mourn what might have been. I understand that.

Ours

What I’m not sure of is the reverse—those who don’t have mental health conditions can’t quite comprehend how the compounding elements and triggering aspects of loss and grief, of how one major passing, transition, ending, or you-don’t-have-my-okay-on-this happenstance, can throw us off the path to wellness. Big time.

Lately I’ve wondered why I still feel so out of control when it comes to the last two years since Dad died. Yeah, it’s still about his loss. Still about our relationship. Still about my not being able to talk to him directly, or having him say, “I love you; I like you; and I’m proud of you.”

Now, though, I think it’s become far more than just about him leaving me. It’s about the whole loss and grief of my life. My dad dying opened a chasm of longing for the life I wished for and now understand I will never have. Mental illness did that.

As hard as living with bipolar is, my relationship with Dad, his acceptance of me, his seeing me as special, helped stave off much of what I see as a sort of terror in final acceptance.

Not fear of accepting his death, but of accepting my life.

The famous Kubler-Ross model of the stages of grief with which we are all familiar—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—not only don’t necessarily come in that order, or in any expected strength or meaning, but also don’t inevitably resolve one before the other, either. For some people, even those without mental health challenges, grief becomes “complicated.” It doesn’t get better.

Trying to Accept … All of It

So for me, with bipolar II, the illness causing more time in depression than hypomania; and for me, in middle-age, looking back on dreams and hopes and desires, and longing; and for me, when I obsessively count the life events and illness(es) that ripped those things from me, the grief is overwhelming. It just kind of never stops. The cycling of grief, that is, along with the cycling of bipolar.

Hence, the trees seem to just keep falling, as I run around, unsuccessfully, trying so damn hard to shore them up, one at a time.

We discuss, as folks with bipolar, acceptance of our diagnosis as a primary means to wellness. I genuinely thought I’d done that a long, long time ago. I mean, I’ve been speaking about it. I’ve studied. I’ve written about having bipolar publicly for, like, ever. I’ve said I’m not afraid. I’ve been called brave, courageous.

Yet to grasp, wait … to not grasp, the falling trees … that in reality, I have not accepted my diagnosis(es) fully. It was Dad’s dying tree that hit me over the head, knocking me into this knowledge:

This is my life. I have mental health challenges. Many of my dreams, hopes, what I wanted for myself, my career, my relationships, my body, my brain … they’re gone. Not there. Forever. Nor is my dad.

… There is always the “and yet.” And yet, I still agree with getting to the point of acceptance.

My 35th high school reunion was last weekend. I didn’t go, as it was 800 miles away. But via active social media, my high school friends, the reunion events, the photos, and the short videos, the miles faded. Most of these old friends know I have bipolar. To my heartfelt surprise, my friends missed me! Next week, I will have lunch with three dear women from college I haven’t seen in decades. They know my illness, and they accept me, too. If all these folks accept it, accept me, well, duh …

Keep shoring up the trees, Beth. You can sprout again.

The post The Trees Fell: Bipolar, Grief, Loss, and Hope (Part 2) appeared first on bpHope.com.