We people with bipolar d/o are storytellers. The beginning of my story.

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Here’s a story I was writing last year, and quite accidentally came upon again. I will finish it in the near future.

A long time ago, and very far away… isn’t that how stories start out? My nanny, in the hot afternoons in Lahore, used to start her stories like that. She would tell us stories about adventures, about boys who put salt in the cuts on their fingers so they wouldn’t fall asleep and miss the ship that was taking them to their fabulous adventures Then she would forbid us to ever do what these boys had done, no salt in our cuts, she warned, because it stings and hurts.

She didn’t know the sting and the hurt that had already been in my life and none of us knew what stings and hurts and tragedies life held in store for us.

I start and then I don’t want to go on. I don’t want to write about the sad things and relive the devastating emotions. So I start and start and leave it unfinished. Anxiety makes me stop. But I will conquer this anxiety and go on.

She was my grandmother. She was only 13 when she got married. She was raised like a princess, the only daughter of a very wealthy adoring land owner father, who owned 1000’s of acres of land, in fact whole villages and was a Nawab, the Indian equivalent of a Duke. Her mother had died when she was a baby so she was brought up by her wet nurse, who adored her and was adored in return. However, the wet nurse really still being a servant, had no authority over my grandmother and so my grandmother grew up imperious, spoilt and used to getting her way. When she inevitably started having children soon after she was married, she did not know how to be a mother. She was 14 at the most when she had her first son. A child herself and spoilt and imperious and impatient and used to being waited upon, not waiting on a new born.

More to come, soon.

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