White Sheep, Black Sheep

There we were. Racing to every convenience store, gas station, and local plaza we could find; posting dozens of the hundreds of flyers we’d printed stating, “MISSING PERSON” of my little sister’s disappearance. The headline was typed in bold, desperate red ink across the top. It was a distinct contradiction to the calm, slow beat of the blood my heart was pumping in my chest. I couldn’t compute where my sister would go, if she had eaten or showered in days, and why this trail of pain seemed to plague my family.

Let me backtrack by saying that the ongoing battle of understanding and treating my sister has been going on since she muttered her first few sentences. Every year took on a new “phase” to overcome. The next several years between health professionals, therapists, and treatment facilities became a constant for our family. Not one week went by where we didn’t have in-home professionals, therapy appointments, or doctor visits. My sister was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 16 years old.

Bipolar disorder is a mood disorder categorized by episodes of mood swings between the manic and depressive states. For a mental illness that is so commonly misused and joked about in mainstream culture, my first reaction hearing this was,

 “This can’t be what she has. She’s so much worse!”  but, oh, was I wrong. 

Treating bipolar disorder itself can be difficult, but paired with substance abuse, that makes it extremely difficult. It became a physical and emotional burden as one of her guardians. Not only for my own sacrifices but the emotional turmoil at home as well. Every day became a careful game, assessing what argument set off an episode or how long a happy moment would last.

It was the week of my sister’s disappearance that really shook the household. On a casual school morning, the entire family was up before dawn pacing between rooms and hallways trying to get ready. In the midst of groggy communication, I finally noted that I had not seen my sister once and asked if she was even home. That spark of curiosity lit a fire beneath us as we realized she was nowhere to be found and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. 

My sister has a history of running away during her bipolar mania. The lure of mania in my sister's mind brings her the lure to escape; escape family, people, even reality in its entirety. She disassociates from logic, and the everyday necessities for human life- the need to sleep and eat- go unaccounted for.

Oftentimes, many people who escape during their mania leave no warning signs. And just like so many other families out there. We were left just as lost.

 The night before, I remember my sister coming into my room to ask me to braid her hair for school the next morning. Being a stubborn teenager in angst myself, I picked the typical, “Get out of my room!” fight and brushed her off. For weeks this scenario would consume my mind. Reevaluating the words exchanged between us for just ONE sign as to why, or where, she went.

My sister was only 15 at the time, so every scenario imaginable troubled my mom’s mind. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and seeing the emotional guilt tax her day in and out was on the brink of unbearable. At this time we had no knowledge of what my sister was actually fighting with herself. No conclusive diagnosis, just years of medical testing, evaluating, and dozens of prescription drugs in our kitchen. The bottles of trials and errors sat untouched on top of our counter for the next five weeks.

To be continued..