“This is foolish,” my mother said. “There is no mental illness in our family.”
She turned to my wife. “Enough of this, let’s talk about the kids. How are they doing in school?”
I knew it. I just knew it. I felt her heartless tone in my bones. In 1973, my wife and I decided we must meet with my parents and explain why I was hospitalized. I wanted so badly to lie and say I had my appendix removed, and keep my mental illness to myself. But no, I had to seek my parents’ love and support for this scary illness. I didn’t even understand the doctor when he explained bipolar disorder.