I had a total bipolar meltdown on my dad.
He was, at first, completely blindsided, and then perplexed.
I usually meltdown on my mom, who knows to just let it ride until the event is over.
But she wasn’t there and I was melting down in real time.
I think it was good for him, my Dad, that is, to see me as I have a propensity to be.
Totally crazy, on the edge of straight-jacket territory.
A mess.
I try to shield him from this side of me, because, well, at the risk of starting a riot, he is my dad and is, with abject certainty, a man.
Men rarely understand the astounding psyche of women.
Don’t roll your eyes and pretend to be insulted.
We know that maneuver.
Add bipolar to the mix and a total discombobulation takes over.
I love my Dad.
He is my, second only to Jesus and third to John Robert (who is dead, by the way), my hero.
A man who’s integrity I would bet my last dime on.
But he isn’t my mom.
He wants desperately to pat me on the head and tell me all is ok.
All is not okay.
I’M HAVING A MELTDOWN, WHERE IS MY MOTHER?
In my own defense, I didn’t say that.
I wanted to, but felt the ramifications would skew the effort to find out WHERE THE HELL my mom was.
So I cried, sobbed, made little sense while blindly clinging to my Dad.
I seriously doubt he will
ever be quite the same.
It’s a bit, I suppose, like trying raw oysters.
It sounds gross, but the rewards … well, they, by spades, outweigh the risks.
I hope, some day, to eat raw oysters with my dad.
A small, and yet ambiguous dream.
He hugged me while I was sobbing incoherently and told me he loved me, no matter what.
Major points for that.
Major.
Points.
Major.
A Photographer's Heart 