I can picture it now vividly, the four of us lined up in our swimming togs, staring out at the vast Atlantic Ocean, our playground for the morning when we should have been in school. Sarah, only five years old, was too young to understand the unspoken rules and began to cry as the bitter sea air nipped at our soft, pale skin. The waves were a furious, dancing reel of excitement, both inviting and daring us in equal measure. I could feel Carol shiver beside me, but despite the urge to comfort her, I remained silent, my eyes fixed firmly on the route ahead. Alan, our only brother, was different, made of sterner stuff. It was as if he had been born with an impenetrable armour that shielded him from the harsh realities of our world.

With a firm tug, Alan led us forward, his hand guiding us toward the water. We braced ourselves as we entered, and the cold Atlantic took my breath away, the icy water lapping around my knees. Sarah’s cry of distress jolted me from my own discomfort, and without thinking, I scooped her into a piggy-back, determined to shield her as much as I could from the biting cold that numbed our legs.

With Sarah secure, we splashed in the frigid water, forcing smiles and laughter, pretending to revel in the fun of it all. After what felt like an eternity, I turned back toward the shore, scanning for my mother to see if we had done enough. To my relief, she seemed satisfied, a silent signal that we could finally leave the water and head back up the grey beach to get dressed.

Still carrying Sarah on my shoulders, we passed an elderly couple who glanced at us with concern before casting a sharp look at my mother. I willed them to move on, hoping they wouldn’t provoke any unwanted reaction. On this occasion, my prayers were answered.

When we returned, mother greeted us with claps and cheers, wrapping our shivering, mottled blue bodies in damp towels. The November wind whipped the sand against our skin, scraping us like sandpaper as she vigorously rubbed us dry.

It would be many years before I first heard the term “bipolar,” and even more years before I would understand what it meant. There were no such labels back then, and people were quick to judge. The kinder ones might have dismissed my mother as “a bit different,” while the nastier majority branded her as  “fit for the madhouse.”

When she died, I mourned not only her loss but also the childhood we might have had, the lives of promise that had been stolen from us. Instead, we had been carried along each day on a rollercoaster of fear and elation. Many days of neglect, as she lay in bed, unable to face the world she had abandoned us to, would be followed by sudden bursts of delirious joy, a fun outing or a trip into town for treats. In those moments, we forgave her everything and delighted in the illusion of having a loving, caring mother who adored us above all else.

Now, when I think of her, I transport myself back to Carrickfinn Beach, standing in my pink flowered swimming togs. I turn to look at her, and there she is, her beautiful smile beaming, her long raven hair lapping around her face, and her blue eyes dancing with joy as she basked in the magic of our day by the sea.