I was a pretty sheltered child. My earliest memories are running hard to explore the 10 acres our home sat in the middle of, complete with barn, wood shed, 100-tree orchard, hay fields, cattle, horses, and of course an amazing tree house.
I honestly can’t remember a time that I felt bored. Of course, you know we bipolar people – we have AMAZING imaginations.
I was loved. I was safe. I was free.
I never understood then just how much my mother gave up so that I could have that life; that I could just BE me. It is certainly bittersweet that my comprehension has now become clearer.
There are a few vague memories of overhearing frantic phone calls in the night, my sisters keeping me out of the way, the family doctor rushing through the back door and up to the master bedroom on the second floor.
I remember the doctor standing at the medicine cupboard in the kitchen, which consisted of a double stacked 4-foot shelf, and scooping bottle after bottle into a garbage sack.
All that registered to this little naïve youngster was that my Mom had been tired for a few days and we weren’t supposed to bother her, and also that the doctor must not understand the rule that we NEVER touch anything on that shelf.