Ann Roselle

I worry so much with every mood episode, with every burst of rage, every down day, every fit of tears that I am scarring my children. I worry that I am causing them irreparable emotional harm. You see, my children are young. They do not fully comprehend that their mother has a chronic mental illness.

We parents always get caught up in our children’s delightful personalities and try to predict future careers. I have no doubt this little activist/politico has a bright future ahead of him making a difference for a lot of people, since he has more than made a difference for me.

I recalled being told to sit tight in the day room all day and behave in lieu of walking peacefully to get some exercise and stretch my legs. I recalled fighting with staff over all-encompassing body wash products that were making my hair fall out. It was an argument to be allowed to wear a ponytail.

I was incapable of feeling. I could not show all the love and promise my heart held for those boys. Once I returned and started feeling better, we had to cope with a new challenge: mania and the onset of bipolar disorder.

When one has a mental illness and thrives under routine and consistency, change can be akin to a four-letter word. For me, that is certainly the case. I loathe change.

Here is the kicker. I am human. I treasure mental stability above all else. Therefore, I take my medications daily and sleep first. So what is a gal to do when my lifestyle is beginning to prohibit proper self-care? What tools can one find in their toolbox to really make time to ensure whole body care in addition to the mind?

I always believed that police used lethal violence to control citizens only as a last resort. Now it’s clear that they are jumping to it without fear — and without repercussion for their actions.
Do I believe all law enforcement acts this way? Of course not. But why do we so often see departments rally around and protect the bad apples?