I didn't learn about the term bipolar as most people do from a psychology class, or textbooks, or even online. I had the burden of the definition being written on my father's face. 

The dictionary definition: any of several psychological disorders of mood characterized usually by alternating episodes of depression and mania. My definition: A thief. A disease that took away and almost destroyed my favorite person. It was the shadow that lingered during car rides once filled with bold 80s music. It was the hole that was left in the kitchen table where he once helped me with my math homework. 

My father was and still is one of my favorite people in the whole world. But at one point he was the man for whom all my angst, all my struggles, and all the darkness inside of me was to blame. 

But how could I blame him? It wasn’t his fault that this parasite-like disorder rooted in his brain was turning the spontaneous into mania, the sadness into paralyzing depression. If it wasn’t his fault, whose fault was it? Why at the age of 11 did I have to comfort my mother? Why at 14 did I know all too well about outpatient programs? And why at 16 do I still feel a bottomless pit in my gut every time mental illness is mentioned? Why? 

I was 11 the first time I actually heard the term bipolar. A word so small yet large enough to ruin me 

“Your father has bipolar.”

Even writing the word speaking the word feels like my soul is being pressed down with a hot iron leaving an imprint, an outline every time 

Bipolar. 

From the age of 11, I have made a concerted effort for that word to never be spoken. I've sealed that chapter of my life away, as if I were to escape I would be consumed by darkness haunting my every move.

On the rare occasion the word is spoken the atmosphere shifts as if I summoned from the heavens a storm cloud that consumes me and the room I stand in. The pity that washes the face of those I have told and the silent judgment that echoes in my head. Because for the average teenager, bipolar means something different. 

Crazy. Insane. Delusional. Unknown. 

They can't nor do I blame them for not being able to understand the intricacies of this disease. They also can't see past the disease like it's one big scarlet B written on my father's chest. They don't see or hear all the wonderful things about him, all the true real raw things I know in my heart. They can’t see past the iron wall of BIPOLAR. 

But I do. 

I see a man, a father, a friend. I see the dad who would lift me onto his shoulder so I could see the entire world. The man who did karaoke in the car with me was not bothered by the 800th Frozen song in a row.

There is a selfish part of me, an almost destructive nature that ruminates in my soul wishing and desiring that these people all these “normal” people for one second could understand though for one second experience the fear I have felt. I envy those who do not and I resent all the people who get to live in a world where bipolar isn't personal. It isn't a shadow that lingers wherever they go, a word etched into their DNA. 

DNA. RNA. Just words. Just words. 

Growing up everyone told me I looked just like my dad from teachers at religious school to family you see once maybe every 5 years and to be honest I see it too. The way we share the same dark curls and eyes and our thick prominent brows. Our smile that crooks ever so slightly when we lie and beams with one gap tooth when we smile. But it's not just looks, it's personality too. During awkward or frankly disturbing conversations both my dad and I can't help but present an awkward smile or laugh even at the worst moments. It’s the crumbs we both always leave at the dining table no matter where and even no matter our age. 

Being similar to my dad always made me so happy. He was my favorite person in the world, my superhero, and what child doesn't want to be a superhero right?

Right?

But what happens when that superhero has kryptonite? 

The thought used to haunt me no matter where or when. If I share so many other things with my dad, do I also share his disease?

Looking back on the thought, all I want to say is “ WHO CARES”. Because despite the treatment centers despite the medication despite the disease, I share my blood with a man who faced all of that and decided to keep on fighting. Fight for me. 

My dad has reached rock bottom and instead of letting that be his end like a phoenix from the ashes he rose dedicated to being better facing his family facing the stigma facing the disease with more resilience and more strength than I've ever known. So I'm glad. My DNA is that of strength because what hero doesn't have a backstory has a flaw, a weakness.

 It took me years to process and see my dad beyond what his disease did to me. Years to let go of the anger I had toward him an anger misplaced and mismanaged credited to my youth and naivety. But now when i look at my dad, see my dad not his disease i see something and understand something so much better, so much more fulfilling. I see i man i am honored to call my dad and I hope he sees a daughter who loves and accepts every part, the way he has for 16 years.