Lamictal, lamictal, when will you start working?

I don't know how much longer I can take this. DD woke up this morning in a rage  because she couldn't snuggle with her daddy. Normally I would think that it was sweet that she missed her dad (he was in the shower), but she threw herself on the floor, screaming, and then decided to attack me. Sigh. I know we're just waiting for the lamictal to get up to a therapeutic level, but boy, oh boy, it's taking a lifetime. After she calmed down about not having Daddy to cuddle with, then it was the cat. I put the cat in the garage for its own safety. I think I hit my limit when she started throwing things at me while I was holding DS, who is only 2 1/2.

The good news? (yes, there is good news, if you can believe it). She started crying after her last screamfest about the cat. She came in to her room while I was changing her brother, curled up on the rocking chair, and hid her face. That's how I know she's embarrassed. I rubbed her leg and then she crawled in my lap. I told her I loved her right away (I try to remember to tell her I love her no matter what she says or does every single day). She was better after that and ate her breakfast and took her medicine without complaint. So, yeah. Things are starting to get better, in microscopic ways.

The next challenge today? Trying to figure out how to stay home and take care of her without becoming homeless! Wish me luck!

Diagnosis

When DD's psychiatrist said, "I know what this is. She's bipolar." I felt a weight lift off my shoulders - at last, a diagnosis - and another, heavier one take its place. Bipolar. What the hell does that mean?

So far, it means that my kiddo will be on medication for the rest of her life, she will have ups and downs that may or may not be preventable, and we are going to get to explore all the levels of hell while we are alive.

It also means that my darling might become incredibly successful at whatever it is she might want to be. Right now, I'm holding on to that. If we can just get her through her childhood, which, as I read last night, is the worst possible time period for a bipolar person, then we will have been successful parents. Great. Another level of hell.