Telling the parents…

A suitably ambiguous title for the post but I can’t think of any better way to phrase what this post is all about.(1)

When I was diagnosed at the end of January, I told my friend George on the day and my friend Kenny the day before I started on lithium; two weeks after I was told I had manic-depression. This was easy, telling my parents wasn’t going to be; after all you can choose your friends and your enemies but not your family.

Kenny and I joked we should have a dinner, me and him, his parents and my parents; the idea being when he tells them he is gay and I tell mine I have manic depression he could point to me and say “at least I’m not crazy” and I could point to him and say “at least I’m not gay”(2). Alas this plan never came to fruition so I was left to my own devices.

About mid-march I finally decided to tell them. Earlier that evening I had revealed my exam results from my semester one exams which weren’t great, they were awful really: I had failed three and would need to resit. Being ashamed that I had let this (the failing) happen I wasn’t in a hurry to tell them and lied to them about not having the results yet whenever they asked. Now, in fairness, I wasn’t in the best of ways during the semester, I was seeing a counsellor and she commented on my “ups and downs” on her referral letter. Regardless when I told them about exams I got the guilt-trip of we aren’t pleased by the results but to have lied about it is terrible. With this in mind and not wanting to be accused of lying again I told them later that night.

So later that night I tell them I have something else to say, then I have second thoughts and say forget it. This is a bad move folks, I ended up being taken by surprise when I was the one delivering the news. So I eventually say it and then the ‘fun’ really started. Four years ago when I told my parents I had been diagnosed with depression my father’s initial reaction was to tell me I wasn’t, I thought this was beyond unreasonably mainly because I had felt like shit for the past three months, wasn’t sleeping and had a GP, nurse therapist and consultant psychiatrist who all were showing some level of concern with me, his reaction this time wasn’t much better-much the same really. This time around his initial response was that he didn’t understand (3) and that he wanted me to tell him how I got the diagnosis. So I spin him the tale of the anxiety about third year, seeing the counsellor, getting her to ask my GP to refer me, being referred, the first session with the psychiatrist and starting on lithium two weeks later. Now he looks at me long and hard and says it all falls into place, at this point it takes an unusual turn, and then he says “Stephen Fry”.

For those who don’t know about Stephen Fry shame on you but more importantly he was the face of a BBC documentary called “The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive” which sounds very flirty and seductive up until the word depressive. It was, and indeed is, an excellent doc, with the venerable Mr Fry chatting to some celebrity chums about the disorder and to some professionals(4) and to some people with it. My parents watched the doc, it was shown in two parts on fresher’s week and the first week of semester one, right around when my path to diagnosis began. Getting back to the point: my dad jumps to the conclusion that because I am a fan of Stephen Fry(5) that I was quite happy to accept my diagnosis. This hurt, it really hurt, much as I adore the comedy of Fry and Laurie who both have their (own and quite separate) issues with depression I also think Bill Hicks was hilarious and forgive me for being hyperbolic here: I haven’t nor will I try to be happy with a diagnosis of cancer.

My dad still isn’t quite able to latch on to the fact that just because I can reconcile that I have a particular disorder/illness/blip on the brain chemicals that I don’t have to be happy about it. Until he does things could be tough, particularly when there are times I like aspects of my illness: the first flush of hypo-mania, making two cross country trips in a day for pear drops and an urge to write to name but a few.

I suppose it comes down to this: my dad believes that manic depression is something to fix and in a way it is. The crucial between us though is that I am anticipating that I will be fixing this problem for awhile whereas he is anticipating a quick fix and the ability to say “Oh bipolar eh? I had that a few years ago, ghastly, but I am fit as a fiddle now” (6)

Maybe both he and I need to learn a little from each other?

Footnotes

1. I toyed with “by the by I’m bipolar.”
2. On a related note, on the night I told my parents that I have manic-depression my mum asked me if I was gay, taken by surprise(there had been a good ten minute lull in the conversation) I said, “eh uhm I don’t know” this was then slightly better packaged as my sexuality is neither here nor there. Saying it is both here and there might be truer, regardless as friend of mine so deliciously crudely put it “who gives a fuck who you fuck?”
3. This appears to be because my aunt, his sister, had been diagnosed with depression and I didn’t exhibit the same symptoms as her, quite how he knew this I don’t know, he is out of the house 7-7 and I was waking after he left and returning when or normally after he went to bed.
4. Indeed one of the professionals he spoke with works at the same institution that I go to for treatment.
5. Particularly the earlier seasons of Fry and Laurie which have seen me through many a dark hour and his novels.
6. Sorry, the use of hyperbole should not be mixed with a poor imitation of gentrified English – countryman/ speakeasy floozy depending upon your cultural heritage.

—

How much of yourself do you give away in order to be well?