A Letter

Dear Conor

You know me as mama, but others call me Lauren, Lowie, daughter, nurse, and even friend. I portray many different characters, but behind the glasses you so love pulling off and putting on my face, I am none of these.

I feel abandoned in my ineptitude and confused about the sincerity of others. I am immensely guarded and admittedly ashamed of the selfish tendencies of those I often consider close. I am so alone in a shapeless shell of a person, that I cannot be nor feel anything except my love for you.

You Conor are my reason.

The reason I couldn't jump April 30, 2009. I still have the note as a reminder why I couldn't leave you. You are the reason I stopped cutting and why the scars have finally healed. I'm always a moment away, I will never let my fears envelop you.

My impetus for writing this letter was watching you sleep; encased in the white railing of your crib you breath in a slow rhythm of trust and security. I created that trust and out of love created you.

I look at you now as I did the day we brought you home. I am overwhelmed with love and baffled at the beauty of perfection in the sparkle of your eyes.

Love, Mama

One year ago, I was diagnosed bipolar by an MD typing feverishly on a computer. He seemed nice, doted on his family, and even had a MacBook. Yet, one year later I feel my diagnosis wrong. I have tried several medications, changed my diet, exercised, lost weight. Yet, I still feel the same as I did one year ago. I am not as labile in affect, without the hormones, and more well rested.

Recently my life crashed around me: Stephen admitted a drinking problem, our finances were in shambles, and apathy caused a rift in a marriage threatening infidelity. Somehow, I feel I cannot adequately grieve this event. Reasons are varied and leave me angry and seeking support. Yet, the needs of others must always be managed and followed explicitly before support.

This angers me and leaves me with that same empty depressive shell. Anger makes me want to shout, hopelessness makes me want to circumvent or cry, and reality means I subvert my needs to help others.

I can't pretend this life anymore. I can't help when I need help. I'm not sleeping because I lay in wait for the trials and management of others. I'm not sleeping because I lay waiting for my mom to be sick again. I lay waiting for it all to end. I lay waiting for a break. I lay waiting for the day I don't have to help.

Maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe it will be May 25. Maybe it will be never.

At least I know I have my life ring sleeping soundly in his crib right now. I will say it a million times then say it a million more, I am so proud Conor is my son and that I am his mom.