“Remember Me?” By Kimberly L

            Mental illness casts a wide net in both its definition and its understanding. Hence, it is often a topic that is either avoided altogether, or only delicately addressed. In the case of my own family, however, we did not have the luxury to sweep over the topic as a passing conversation piece at the dinner table.  In our home, we had the sad misfortune of watching our mother slowly be consumed by evolving schizophrenia, while life as we had always known it, was slowly taken away from us, too.

            My mother, Gail, was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 43. I was 10 at this time. My sisters and I had historically been children raised in a highly stable family structure, with two functional and supportive parents, the instilling of good civic values, and the warmth and stability that comes with a cohesive family unit. As my mother’s diagnosis began to manifest itself and then progress, my sisters and I were thrust into a life structure for which we were not prepared, as well as into a world of great uncertainty and fear. Through my early growing years, my mother had essentially embodied the role of the stereotypical caretaker. She was a parent above all else, a homemaker, a well-liked community member, and my father’s high school sweetheart.

            However, my mother’s disease challenged every aspect of my life. Our family was propelled into a state of reactive survival, with expected roles and behaviors changing sometimes hour by hour. My parents divorced, resulting in my father having to assume the role of two parents, and I learned hard and fast how to bear not only an adult role in the home, but also a custodial one. As I moved on to my high school years, my mother moved to her own apartment, and was frequently in and out of mental health facilities. My father was often at work, struggling to support both our household and hers simultaneously.

            It was and continues to be an experience I still do not have the perfect word to describe. Imagine visiting your mother for the first time in nearly a year, looking her dead in the eyes and seeing this confused, blank, almost dead look on her face, knowing you were unrecognizable to her. The same woman who my middle name was chosen after and who I loved more than anything in this world could look into the hazel eyes she gave me and have absolutely no idea who I was. If the heart could physically break into two separate pieces, I think this experience reciprocated a merely perfect representation of the pain that would be felt.

            Along with carrying an always heavy heart, I was also a teenage girl, attempting to navigate the unforgiving adolescent stages of my life simultaneously. My mother being absent, I was forced to learn all the typical lessons and essential life skills mothers teach their daughters on my own. I found myself secretly jealous of those who had a fully functioning mother figure in their life, and could even refer to her as their “best friend”. This jealousy consumed me and I became angry and confused as to why I was being denied what I had taken for granted all these years, a relationship with my mother.

            In looking back now, it is clear to me that the most notable aspect of any crisis is the demand that it makes on an individual to both personally and spiritually grow. At age 10, I had to relinquish my defined role as a young person, and let go of all of the standard trials and tribulations that accompany it. I instead became a member of a quick- response team. I learned to jump in and be accountable to my father. I learned to watch over my mother, to assist my sisters, and to help run our home. Above all else, I learned to rely on myself, to independently problem solve, and to survive on my own, when it was necessary to do so. Instead of viewing her role in my life as one of hardship or pain, I have taught myself that compassion and love allow me to live each day as a fuller and richer young woman. With the help of seemingly never ending treatment and medication, I have recently been given the opportunity to reconnect with my mom. Though our relationship is only slowly growing, I have hope that one day it will flourish into what I have always dreamed of. I never thought I would hear the words “I love you too” come from her mouth again. I am extremely happy I was wrong.