A STORY FROM A BLOG READER:
The year was 1959 and I was sitting at the kitchen table eating toast with jelly (one of my favorites for breakfast).
"Take the baby, hold the baby, keep the baby."
"Take the baby, hold the baby, keep the baby."
By the third time, I looked up and knew that something was terribly wrong with my mother. I was seven years old and had no idea that my life was about to change forever. My grandmother did take the baby (my brother) from my mother while my dad and young uncle quickly moved mom into my parent's bedroom.
I was so scared but managed to slowly walk from the table to my parent's room to see what was happening. My mother was on the bed, and when she saw me, she told me to come in. I walked in and got on the bed but soon found myself gasping for air. My mother was holding me so tightly that I couldn't breathe. It took both my father and my uncle to pry me away. The next thing I remember is being upstairs at the neighbor's and watching from the window as my mother was loaded into a large, black ambulance.
Today, in my 60's, I look back on my childhood and wonder how I and my siblings managed to survive. My mother was finally diagnosed as manic depressive now known as bipolar disorder, but this was after many, many years of manic episodes and many long (seemed like forever to us) stays at the mental hospital.