Unpredictable actions, intense emotional shifts, and suicide threats.

I am opening up about my experience growing up with a step-parent who had bipolar disorder.

At 12, I moved into the house at 1161 Covington Road in Los Altos, California, and began life in what appeared to be a typical middle-class family.

However, those close to us—friends, neighbors, and relatives—were well aware of the underlying turmoil. I never knew which version of my stepmother I’d face each morning. Would she be the nurturing stepmom I had expected, as promised by my father?

Or the aloof stepmom who insisted I start looking after myself and care for my three younger brothers and even demanded that I pay for any food I took from the kitchen?

Some days, she’d whisk us off on extravagant shopping trips, letting us indulge in all the candy we could carry. However, darker days loomed, like the time we had to cancel a family vacation because she was upset and threatened suicide. Eventually, I adapted to the unpredictability; however, each day was still a gamble. I came to understand this reality at a very young age.

When I was 13, my stepmother became upset after my grandfather sent George and me home with Easter gifts following our holiday visit.

An argument broke out between her and my father, and things quickly spiraled. She took George and me into her bedroom, locked the door, and revealed the Easter baskets she had prepared. Loudly enough for the younger boys to hear, she told us the Easter bunny wasn’t real, explaining that it had always been her, my dad, and our grandparents who had created the magic out of love. She wanted us to understand that she loved us, even if she ‘went away.’

Shortly after, my stepmother went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and tried to slit her wrists over the sink.

One Christmas, my dad gave her a gift she had always wanted. We were all excited to see her reaction, but none of us could have foreseen what would happen next. Believing the gift was given out of guilt for an affair—which, in this case, was true—she stormed off and disappeared for 48 hours.

Feeling helpless, my dad contacted the police, and she eventually returned home. No one spoke about where she had been or what had happened.

As I grew older, my stepmother became a source of embarrassment for me. As a freshman in high school, I attended a holiday party at a friend’s house.

Her mom let us bake and decorate cookies, and we watched Christmas movies and spent time hanging out. My stepmom suddenly appeared out of nowhere, demanding that I come home.

She started yelling, insisting I didn’t deserve to be with friends and should be home caring for my three younger brothers. My friend’s mom tried to calm her down, but my stepmom made a scene right there in the street. Ultimately, I gave in and went home to end it. Over time, I stopped spending time with friends because she would always show up and cause a disruption. For the same reason, I never dated in high school. Instead, I started using drugs and secretly going to parties with older boys my parents didn’t know about. I was treated like a rebellious troublemaker, so I eventually started acting the part.

Bipolar disorder, previously known as manic depression in the 1970s, is a mental health condition characterized by alternating episodes of depression and abnormally elevated moods, each lasting from several days to weeks.

At 16, my brothers and I came home from school one afternoon to find Dotti missing.

I slipped into my usual routine for the nights she disappeared—making a simple dinner for my siblings and giving them a brief moment of peace before the inevitable storm of her return. She had kicked our father out the week before. That night, I told the boys for the first time, ‘Our mom is crazy.’

When I left home at 17 and got married, we moved just a few miles away from my family’s house—I didn’t want to be far from George. Despite the marriage, I continued engaging in behaviors often associated with children of parents with bipolar disorder, like risky sexual choices and substance abuse.

I started going out regularly—clubbing, drinking excessively, and behaving in ways most would label as sexually promiscuous.

And yes, I was married and underage.

My husband was heartbroken.

My adult relationship with my stepmother was primarily driven by guilt. I knew how much she wanted to be part of her granddaughter’s life, and I didn’t want to be the one to prevent that. At the same time, I was hesitant to expose my daughter to Dotti’s unpredictable behavior.

My stepmother and I talked every few months, and I let her speak with my daughter occasionally. I also made an effort to visit her and my dad a few times a year. After his death, our visits were every other year. For me, it still felt like navigating an exhausting, never-ending cycle.

Bipolar disorder is mainly hereditary, with genetic factors accounting for about 80% of its cause, making it the most likely psychiatric condition to be passed down. If one parent has bipolar disorder, their child has a 10% chance of developing it.

I’m convinced that one of my stepbrothers, the one still living, has the disorder. I’m thankful I wasn’t her biological child, and in fact, my father never allowed her to adopt George and me legally. However, that’s a story for another time.