We share a friendship that involves spontaneous outings for manicures and family adventures—trampoline parks, dinners, and that unforgettable long weekend at the water park. We enjoy ourselves, even when our kids are being, well, kids. You see how playful my son is and how kind-hearted my daughter can be.
Yet, there are moments when our family’s unique needs lead to what might seem like peculiar restrictions. We often decline invitations or insist on early bedtimes because our daughter, in particular, “isn’t feeling up to it” or “needs to be in bed early” or prefers to skip the annual Labor Day carnival because it’s “too loud.”
At nine years old, what little girl would actually want to miss out on fun with friends or cut an outing short? But my daughter does.
I know you might think of us as strict or overprotective—those “helicopter” parents who want to control everything. And that perception pains me more than you can imagine. I never pictured myself as that type of parent. But then again, I never anticipated having a child with bipolar disorder.
I envisioned carefree days filled with carnivals, movie nights with endless popcorn, and vacations with friends—playdates filled with laughter and joy. Instead, our reality is far from carefree. We often leave movies early when my daughter feels overwhelmed, or when something in the film triggers her anxiety.
Family vacations are daunting endeavors because our need for structure can be challenging for even the most understanding of friends. My daughter struggles socially, misreading cues and often reacting defensively, which can push away potential friends before they truly understand her.
Sleepovers are out of the question because she dreads the idea of friends discovering her nightly medication routine or seeing her elaborate calming rituals before bed. And that’s assuming she can even settle down without a panic attack.
Our lawn is devoid of bicycles, and while our pantry remains stocked, it’s not because we have a thriving social life. Rather, it feels like I’m constantly tiptoeing around invisible eggshells—both for her and for you.
You see, while we chat about mundane topics at PTA meetings or over coffee, I often find myself lost in thoughts of the recent emotional storms my daughter has weathered. I worry about the babysitter managing her anxiety or if my girl is going through another panic episode.
I share in your frustrations about homework, but my focus is on hoping the school doesn’t call to inform me of troubling behavior from my daughter.
We are friends, and I yearn to share this burden, to explain why our lives may appear rigid and why I decline invitations with vague excuses. But I hesitate. What if you don’t understand? What if revealing this secret scares you away? I fear that if you hear the word “bipolar,” you might withdraw or stop inviting my daughter over.
The isolation I feel is heavy. The inability to be open with friends about our reality makes me feel like I’m living a lie. The glimpses I share about our life sometimes seem as curated as the seemingly perfect vacation photos I post online, where smiles abound and no one sees the tantrums or anxiety.
My daughter is a bright, creative soul, and her bipolar disorder doesn’t define her. Yet, as her mother, I grapple with my own loneliness even amidst friendships. I’ve tried to drop hints, mentioning her “anxiety” or how “crazy” things can get, testing your understanding.
I’m scared of losing you and of my daughter facing isolation at school. I dread the thought of her sitting alone, watching others play while she feels excluded. I worry about the future, too—the same loneliness looming as she grows older.
I don’t know what it’s like to be nine and bipolar, but I do know the pain of feeling unseen and questioning whether you would still accept me if you knew the full truth. I wonder if I’ll ever find the courage to share it.
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In summary, navigating the challenges of having a daughter with bipolar disorder has reshaped my world and my relationships. I long for understanding and connection, while grappling with the fear of stigma and isolation.
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