Our own version of normal

Seattle writer Naomi Steinberg, who lives with bipolar disorder, posted about living with mental illness yesterday.

I read an article in The Seattle Times recently about the kids, who, while toddlers, survived the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. They are teenagers now. Most have permanent injuries: burn scars, hearing loss, developmental disabilities, PTSD. One boy has had five major brain surgeries; the last put a plate in his head. He also suffers from seizures and wears a full ankle brace to school everyday. When interviewed, his mother said, regarding her family, “We have our own normal.” I read that and felt like a light bulb just switched on. “I have my own normal.”

So do I. Yesterday when Richard and I got back from Atlanta, we drove over to the construction site to check on the progress of our house, and we had two close calls on the way back, one while trying to make a left turn (my favorite!) and the other while coming to a stop at Highway 70 and Miami Boulevard, when a car in front of us abruptly swerved into our lane. As I was frantically groping for my anti-anxiety medication, Richard said, “I’ll take you home,” changing our plans, which had been to go grocery shopping together and then grab dinner. He knew I had to get somewhere quiet, away from any more potential shocks to my system.

That’s my normal, and it is what it is.