Momma’s got a mood disorder, but she’s managing. In between the pills lies an anger so frightening she shuts herself away sometimes. It’s not about you. You can’t know because you’re still golden. You don’t know why those little white pieces of not-candy that make me sleepy, a little too early, are a very good thing. They keep my hands from shaking and my heart from breaking over yelling, screaming instead of responding and listening. Momma’s got a mood disorder, but she’s managing. Managing not to clean the whole house in a two hour daze, a craze of putting toys away and seething about legos under toes. Letting it be, even if it bothers me and allowing for a bit of chaos.
Momma’s got a mood disorder, and it has no good name. It’s just between Bipolar 1 and severely depressed, it’s intangible madness I think I can tame. But…mommy can’t, without help, and she has to be okay with that, like you’re okay with that. Momma’s got a mood disorder, but she’s managing to write her books, tell her tales, spin a verse, make some sales, ride a bike, teach some classes, run like hell, clean the messes, get the mail, love you dearly, read you books, teach you safety, help you cook, love you deeply, brush your hair, be the world that you orbit, and have time to cuddle in our favorite chair. So, if anyone ever tells you that “I’d love to do this, but I can’t” just know that we all have our choices, even those of us with a crazy slant. Momma’s got a mood disorder, but she’s kicking ass. Because she expects it of herself, and knows that you don’t give a day pass.
Monochrome 