July 9: Tweenage Rage

So, my daughter had a meltdown this morning.  Actually, meltdown is too sedate a word for her behavior.  She had a door-slamming, screaming-at-the-top-of-the-lungs, uncontrollably-weeping, nuclear apocalypse of a tantrum.  It was prompted by my wife waking her up at 10 a.m.  That's right.  All my wife did was wake her up.

I must back track a little bit.  You see, at the beginning of summer vacation, my daughter was staying up until midnight, 1 a.m., 2 a.m.  Then she would sleep until one or two o'clock in the afternoon.  Well, eventually, my daughter developed a case of insomnia one night.  She couldn't fall asleep at her normal bedtime (10 p.m.).  She was awake until five o'clock in the morning, finally drfting off as the sun came up.  Well, from that day, we decided to get her up at 10 a.m, regardless of what time she went to bed the night before.

This morning, she was really tired.  She didn't want to get up and started screaming at my wife, throwing objects at her three-year-old brother (whatever was handy--toy cars, books, pillows).  It was when my wife stepped in to try to calm her down that the bedroom door started slamming.  At one point, my daughter got on the phone with me, crying, saying, "Why do I have to get up so early?  Why?  I'm soooooo tired.  Why?"

My wife decided to punish our daughter for her behavior.  She grounded our daughter to the house for the day.  I have learned that you have to be careful about doling out punishments.  A punishment assigned during a fit of tweenage rage can really ruin a parent's whole day.  My wife is suffering the consequences of her hasty sentence.  I haven't heard from home for a couple of hours.  Either things have simmered down, or everyone is dead.

I worry that our daughter's extreme temper tantrums are more than just normal, hormone-fueled fits.  I worry that what I'm witnessing is the tip of something more serious.  Since my wife was diagnosed bipolar, I've been really sensitive to our daughter's mood swings.  So when she has episodes like the one she had this morning, I start worrying.  About mental illness.  About puberty.

I'm not sure I can handle having a daughter with mental illness.  I'm not sure I can handle having a daughter going through puberty.

Either way, Saint Marty is screwed.

This is a pretty familiar sight in my house

June 20: A Poet Raising a Tweenager

Last night, at the Donald Hall dinner, I felt like an actual poet.  Everyone recognized me as a writer and English professor, not as the person who registered them for their cataract surgeries or urological procedures.  I had the director of the local library tell me I was "absolutely wonderful" in the podcast interview I did a few weeks ago.  When I met a stranger, I didn't begin the conversation by saying, "And are you ready to provide your urine specimen?"  It was a great night.

I have been riding that feeling all day long.  Tonight, I'm going to Donald Hall's poetry reading.  More of the same type of mutual admiration society.  However, when I get home, I will once more be reduced to the father of a tweenage girl.  That means hugs, then hostility.  "I love you, daddy" followed by "You just don't understand me!"  Laughter then tears then laughter again.  In between all those mood swings, I will try to tiptoe my way through the night until it's time to go to bed.

I've written about my worries for my daughter's mental health before.  Because of my wife's bipolar disease, every time I see my daughter step off the dock of sanity into the seas of tweenage girlhood, I wonder if I'm witnessing an episode of manic fury or hormonal normality.  I rock back and forth in my convictions.  Depending on the time of day, the temperature outside, the chicken sandwich I had for lunch, I can convince myself that my daughter is completely normal or is headed for some kind of psychotic break.

I'm hoping what I'm expressing are the normal concerns of the father of a tweenage girl.  I don't want to see my daughter struggle the way my wife has struggled with her illness.  I want my daughter to grow into a confident, beautiful, successful young woman.  Today, I believe that my daughter is in the throes of adolescence.  Tonight, after being in the company of poets, I may go home believing my daughter is on the ridge of madness.

There is no easy solution to my dilemma.  This fear has been with me since my daughter was just a mitten in the crook of my arm.  It sleeps in the top bunk of my daughter's bed.  It follows her to the school bus stop.  When I come home tonight, it will be standing in her shadow when she comes to the front door to greet me.

Saint Marty is going to be a poet tonight.  A father later on.  A worrier always.

Fearing the shadows

Dickens' Bicentenary, Happy Birthday, Chuckling

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

This little scene, which takes place after Scrooge has been redeemed, is full of the kind of energy that would accompany a condemned man being pardoned from execution.  Scrooge has been given a second chance, and he's positively joyous about it.  It kicks off the last stave of the novel, and it's what the reader has been waiting to see:  Scrooge the Changed.

I chose this passage on this morning for multiple reasons.  First, because both of my posts yesterday were more than a little depressing.  Second, because I love the picture it paints of a man on the road to redemption.  Third, because I love seeing rich people being generous with their money.  Fourth, because I needed a chuckle myself.  Fifth, because I think the manic energy Scrooge displays pretty accurately reflects Dickens' own bipolar disposition.  And Sixth, today is the bicentenary of Dickens' birth (the Inimitable, as he liked to call himself, would have been 200 years old today).

As I would expect, this bicentenary is being/will be celebrated the world over for quite a few months, but especially in Dickens' beloved London.  I've always had a thing for Dickens.  I have a 1,200-page Dickens biography by Peter Ackroyd that I've read (I kid you not) four or five times.  I just really love the details of his life.  His dissolute father.  His obsession with his dead sister-in-law.  His social conscience.  His trips to the United States.  Everything.  However, the thing that really sells Charles Dickens to me is the fact that I'm convinced he suffered from bipolar disorder.

Dickens, mean and wild

The descriptions of his wild personality, coupled with his bouts of severe depression, seem to be pretty good indications that Chuck would have benefited from some lithium.  When he was in his creative/manic phases, he would write all day and then go for twenty-mile walks through London and the English countryside at night.  He used his manias to great effect, considering his creative output.  Novels.  Plays.  Essays.  He acted in the theater.  He gave hugely popular public readings near the end of his life and made tons of money.  He died of a stroke at the age of 58, having published 20 some novels, four short story volumes, tons of essays, and nine or so collections of plays/poetry/non-fiction.  Holy crap!

But Charles Dickens was not an easy man to live with.  As the spouse of a person with bipolar (and my wife takes medications), I can vouch for the fact that Mrs. Dickens did not have an easy life.  Mrs. Dickens, herself, suffered severe post-partum depressions (and she had a ton of kids), so life in the Dickens' household must have been quite the carnival.  In his latter years, Dickens abandoned his wife to take up with a much younger woman.  This fact just convinces me even more of Dickens' mental disease.  Considering how conscious he was of the public's perception of him, the impulsiveness of this sexual relationship fits right into the pattern of the illness.  Again, I speak from experience.

Creativity.  Impulsivity.  Proclivity to erratic moods.  That's the Charles Dickens not too many people are aware of.  However, on this day, the 200th anniversary of his birth, I will think of a different Dickens.  The one who crusaded for the rights of the poor and uneducated and incarcerated.  The one who redeemed Ebenezer Scrooge.  The one who probably chuckled till he cried on many occasions.

Saint Marty salutes the Inimitable.