The Little White Pill

Sunday of last week, as I sat in my Sunday school class and shared my fears and trepidation with the group gathered there, I found myself sitting with my hands on the table in front of me, fingers spread as if looking for balance and grounding there in the collective faith of those surrounding me.  Prayers were raised and testimonies were shared, but my world still rocked and swayed, and when I pulled my hands back into my lap, I noticed that they left behind sweaty streaks.

Earlier this week, I was doing better, but still nervous.  I was afraid of what would come, and afraid of how it would feel to be giving my daughter, my painfully beautiful and vibrantly intelligent daughter, daily medication.  Medication that would...what?  What would it do?  Would it dull her down?  Would it change her personality?  Would she be calmer, but at the same time then not be my vivacious, spirited little girl?

Am I doing the right thing????

But then, when it came time to meet with the psychiatrist to actually get a prescription, I felt calm and confident.  This was good, this was right, this WOULD be a solution, if not this dose, this medication today, then we try again tomorrow.

The little blueish square of paper bearing the script rode home with us in the front seat of honor, and as much as it tried to intimidate me, I wouldn't let it.  It kept looking at me, in all of its papery paleness, but even as I kept with its antics out of the corner of my eye, I was able to carry on a conversation with my girl, such as it was.  She was talking too loud, too fast and laughing too much to really participate in a 'conversation' but my 'Really?', 'Uh-uh', and 'Oh, my!' were for the most part properly placed in her ramblings.

And then we get to here:  This girl, this mom, this glass of water, and this little white pill

This prayer, this hope, this fear

This unknown.

Her brown eyes set in her already beautifully tanned faced framed by her soft brown curls looked up at me confidently and trustingly. She had an expectant half smile as she picked the little white pill out of my hand with slender fingers that end in chewed off nails.  She tipped the capsule into her mouth and washed it down with a glass of water, eyes on me the whole time.  Then she set the glass on the counter, met my eyes once more, and ran off to play.

That was it.

As much as I can boldly say, 'My daughter has been diagnosed with early-onset bipolar', and as much as I can know in my mind that something needs to be done both for her sake and for our sanity, I admit that my heart was still in denial.

But isn't admitting that there's a problem the first step in the right direction?  And so, pill bottle in hand, we timidly begin down this path,

A path that leads off into the great unknown, but a path that we know that we will not be walking alone.