Winning the Genetic Lottery

[BurntIceCream]

I'm bipolar and have been for many, many years. At first I was in denial but I eventually came to terms. I grew up in a dysfunctional home and didn't fit it with a lot of the neighborhood kids but the biggest factor in my journey through "crazy" are my genes. George Santayana said, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." While I do not want to delve too deeply into my personal, genetic building blocks, it is important to know the context in which these words are written (typed).

For me, the concept of duality and the struggle to maintain balance have been a theme in my short time on this floating blue rock in the inky black sky. I'm what one would call "mixed-race", a term that's caught on in the last generation referring to people born to parents of different ethnic backgrounds. I like to think of myself as severely un-inbred, it has a better ring to it and doesn't evoke any kind of preordained judgment beyond being generally pompous.

My mom's family came from Italy and my dad's from the Dominican Republic. If there was a clever term for the merger of the two, somebody much smarter would have already coined it by now. Needless to say, I didn't exactly fall into a predisposed category of White/Hispanic/Asian/Black/Etc... but more on that a little later.

My maternal grandparents were old fashioned; there were roles each of us in society held and there was little reason to mess with the natural order of things (IE: don't be a pioneer and stick to your own). You can see where this is going... My mom was one of three girls, each told not to give their hopes up on education, a career or an identity because they were going to end up being somebody's wife and taking care of their children 'til the end of time. Such oppression without an outlet for release is bound to stir up choice emotions. Now, there's a lot of back and forth regarding where mental illness is rooted; some say it's environmental, others suggest it's genetic while most concur that it's a hybrid of the two.

Without knowing its roots, my grandmother (who rarely speaks about it) had bipolar personality disorder. As did my mom's younger sister. And for me, it's the first concrete place that I can point out in connection with my own diagnosis. That household was like an incubation chamber for future emotional distress. I liken it to my own personal primordial ooze and the suitable foundation for what "joys" would follow. But that isn't the sole source of my future ailment...

Less than 100 miles away, my dad grew up in a house of six. Both of his parents did their best to follow the roadmap to the American dream. With their broken English, they left their culture, their language, their identities behind and worked hard to achieve the all-important star-spangled lifestyle. Let's take a brief step back in time for a moment. My grandfather immigrated to the states in the 1930s during an uprising in his native land that left his family branded as enemies of the state. I'll put it this way, even though he was a boy, had he not fled, he would have been tortured and executed. I say this because the impact left a lasting impression and came with severe consequences: alcoholism, violence, greed and a desire for societal vengeance.

He was good to his family financially but the anger, the pain, the pressure of trying to overcome his childhood trauma did more harm than good. And all his checkbook could fashion a beautiful house, exquisite clothes and fine meals, it couldn't provide for a happy home. My dad and his siblings were often times on the receiving end of my grandfather's damaged heart. He was swift with his punishment, severe with its implementation and bitter with the way he enacted it. When my dad was old enough, he enlisted in the army. He was bright, athletic and had a future ahead of him but the idea of being under the thumb of the man he referred to as the "old man" was too much to bear. The late 60s weren't the ideal era for somebody to voluntarily join the armed forces, but when the prospect of death is likely in either scenario, I have to think that he chose to go where it would mean something more than a write-up on page 43 of the local paper.

Meanwhile my mom did her best to endure the harsh environment and authoritative ruling in her own home. My grandfather could be cruel and unfeeling. He wasn't a violent man but the booming of his voice could shake the walls of any fortified building. He had convictions, he had fears, he didn't want his family to suffer and if he could prevent mistakes from happening, it didn't matter how he went about doing it. If he suspected my mom of speaking with a boy, he made sure to shut it down by threatening the young man and every now and then, making a casual drive to make sure that his verdict on the matter was upheld. My mom lived in fear of disobeying his law. To complicate matters, my grandfather worked in construction, no frills but honest, sometimes dependable work. My grandmother stayed at home, because, well... she had a duty to be there in his eyes.

When work wasn't reliable, the family packed up and moved and moved and moved. And by the time my mom graduated high school, she had lived in more homes than she had candles on her birthday cake. Always being the new kid in class, the new girl in town, the stranger that nobody knows (and can't know) does something to you. For my mom, she fashioned a mask; one that guarded her from loneliness and presented an ever-present smile to the hoards of new individuals she'd encounter as she grew with age.

Although his ASVAB (The Military SAT) score was high, my dad ended up being assigned to the infantry during his tour of Vietnam. Another brilliant mind wasted on the field of battle... While braving the lush jungles of southeast Asia, he experienced the many horrors of war, the bloody altercations, late night ambushes and grotesque visuals that would shape his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

The psychological trauma wasn't the worst; he was one of thousands of American soldiers (mostly drafted) that were exposed to a plant defoliant produced by the Dow Chemical Company known as Agent Orange. More on that later... Where he saw countless members of his platoon massacred, he fortunately was hit by a stray bullet, earning him a purple heart and an all expense paid trip home with his life still intact.

He returned to his childhood home to find all of his belongings long gone. His family presumed he would undoubtedly never return from the war and unloaded his possessions to get a jump start on the grieving process. Nice, right? Fast forward a few years and he gets a masters in Engineering from Cal Poly and starts a career with a company that designs, operates and sells agricultural equipment: tractors, tillers, etc... And that brings us to my origin.

My mom moved out of her parents' home at the age of 20 but still lived somewhat under her father's rule. He stipulated that if she were to leave, she would have to take her sister with her. A woman on her own cannot be trusted... California's central coast spans a few hundred miles but at the time, it felt like a fairly tight-knit community. My parents met and voila! Magic. Well, at least it was for them...at first. My dad proposed two years into their relationship and the answer was a resounding 'yes' (otherwise, I wouldn't be writing this).

The caveat was getting my grandfather's approval; a reminder that this was a multi-racial relationship. A few choice words, veiled threats and iron-clad ultimatums later and my mom was without a family. Education, wealth, duty, even love weren't enough to sway my grandfather's opinion because my dad rolled the 'R' in his last name and it was easy for him to maintain a tan throughout the year. The marriage went through and my dad's family accepted my mom as their daughter/sister (but not in a 'Hills Have Eyes' kind of way). Three years later I was born. Ironically, my grandfather's biggest fear became his greatest joy.

The rumor is that mixed babies are adorable and upon my grand entrance, he welcomed my mom back with quasi-open arms. There was and still is a lot of healing to be done and 30 some-odd years later, those original wounds still remain while others have managed to fester ever further. I've been chronicling my misadventures on my blog.