Adolescent Bipolar Disorder: A Mother’s Story

My shoulders hunched into themselves as the door slammed. I began to dread the ensuing scene with a deep breath and a shoring-up of my draining inner strength. And it was here, the time of day when the screaming commenced, the crying ensued, and slamming doors were the norm in our home. Elizabeth was home from school. Three-fifteen every day.

She stood in the middle of the family room and stared at me with burgeoning defiance in her big chocolate eyes as she threw her backpack onto the couch. “I want french fries,” she uttered before the bag hit furniture. “I want to go and get french fries.”

“No,” I responded, bracing myself. “We’re not going anywhere this afternoon so french fries aren’t on the agenda.” I tried to make a weak joke, which I knew wouldn’t work. Elizabeth’s two sisters had evacuated to their rooms, long used to their sister’s erratic behavior and outlandish demands.

“But,” she growled, her voice gaining volume and speed, “I said I want french fries, and I want them now!”

“You’re not getting them now. Maybe when…” but of course I was never able to finish my sentence because the wailing and screaming had commenced. “Go to your room,” I was able to yell over her cacophony.

“I hate you,” she screamed at the top of her lungs, “I hate your guts and I hope you die! I hope you all die, I hate this family, you all make me sick, I want french fries!” Her voice was hoarse by now as she ranted and screamed at the top of it. She walked to her room with the verbal abuse still sputtering and spewing: “Everyone hates me! I hate everyone else! I’ll kill myself, you’ll see, then you’ll be sorry! I hate you!”

She was finally downstairs in her basement room, wailing to the walls instead of my face. Whew, just another after-school day with my beloved oldest daughter Elizabeth. At twelve years old, she was getting worse instead of better and I knew it.

The other two children tiptoed out of their rooms with wide eyes, but they cautiously walked into the kitchen and started preparing snacks. I smiled as much as I was able. “How was your day?” And we carried on as if nothing unusual had occurred. Nothing had. Elizabeth wandered back upstairs after about half an hour. She nonchalantly walked into the kitchen, prepared a snack, and started talking to me rapid-fire. Nothing unusual for this day; it was like every other one that we spent with Elizabeth. From screaming within five minutes of her homecoming from school to normal behavior in the space of an hour. But normal behavior never lasted.