MENTAL HEALTH | PARENTING

The Good in Mental Illness: In a Sea of Negativity, Light Shines in Her Eyes

Hopeless to hopeful has its own timeline.

It’s difficult to decipher a tone, a nuance, a flavor in the printed word.

Unless it’s blatantly obvious, of course.

“I hope for your sake your daughter never sees what you write. She’ll hate you for it.”

In the months following that unsolicited commentary, I wrote more about my parental mental health journey through hell.

That remark lingered.

I continued on my course and tried not to hold my breath wondering if the hammer would drop.

My words spoke my unedited reality.

“Hell no, I can’t take her Jeep. Bitch sleeps with the keys in her bra.”

“They’ll never find her body after I cut her into a million little pieces and scatter them at the beach.”

I refused to water down the truth. What purpose would that serve? Is full understanding ever achieved if a shiny version is offered, missing chunks?

I defended my position back then and disputed his claim.

I worried.

How sure am I?

Questionable seeds take root in unlikely places.

Self-doubt is the weed that pops up through the cement walkways against all odds. I discounted his words and yet they tucked in the recesses of my mind and took root regardless.

Have I gone too far?

Would she hate me for documenting our lives?

Mental illness is as easy to understand as 1 + 1 = B, or 17, or an apple.

I write about my daughter’s mental illness for the benefit of those who find themselves fumbling blindly in the darkness as I did.

The people embarking on a journey of helplessness, hopelessness, and worst of all, loneliness, deserve insight from those of us further down the road.

The pit in our stomachs, the heartache, and breathless strangulation weighs heavy, slow, and debilitating, with no end in sight.

Have you felt it?

Hopeless?

I’ve shared ugly truths to reach across the aisles and offer my hand to strangers. I’ve only scratched the surface, the tip of the iceberg at best. Many stories hold valuable lessons that may help someone feel less alone.

There are no manuals, handbooks, or secret elixirs to help navigate any of us through the tangled web of mental illness. We are at the mercy of support systems with a ‘wing and a prayer’ approach. I offer no answers.

I offer hope.

My hand.

My stories.

My daughter and I found our footing on the path of open communication a few years ago. In her heightened hatred of me, life steamrolled her in the darkest of times.

I watched her break; incoherent words swallowed by screams and tears rendered her less than human. She exacted punishment on her cell phone. Shattered screen pieces and the plastic housing sprayed across the pavement.

Hopeless.

In our silence, she found her breath. We sat on the exterior steps of our apartment.

Her body stilled as defeat pushed down her shoulders.

My daughter’s glassy eyes pleaded with me to make the pain go away. Her tentative whisper broke our silence.

“Will you hug me?”

At that moment, we embodied many people in our embrace.

Mom and daughter. Two broken women burdened by hostile forces in life. Sisters in pain. New found friends.

“Will you smoke with me?”

I had quit years prior. Of course, I will.

The irony. We sat quietly side by side, with just the glow of our lit cigarettes lighting the dark stairwell. We were survivors of a war in which we had been bitter opponents.

That night signified a change.

It wasn’t cataclysmic but a subtle shift in the air. An important one.

She had chosen to be homeless. The draw of her baby’s father remained strong. We didn’t have to agree on life choices. I will raise their son with love and care.

We sat on those steps for long enough to cramp but neither wished to break the spell. We had rounded a corner to rest in the land of mutual respect backed by honesty.

Hopeful.

Communication. Trust.

Living through the ugliest of times won’t break us.

I don’t expect anyone to understand or endorse what we went through.

My stories are shared to offer hope.

I needed that hope and it eluded me for many sleep-deprived years. People were fearful of the unknown world of mental illness. There were no outstretched hands for me to grab.

Darkness was her devil and it robbed my sleep. I worried about what my daughter’s future had in store for her. And, for me. The worst period included a tightly wound chain around my bedroom door handles.

The chain would never prevent her from fulfilling a rage-filled quest, but I wanted a head start if alerted by the noise of forced entry. Targets don’t sleep deeply.

I clung to hope.

Hope.

I offer it here and in every memory I share.

Years blended into each other. Now, I talk to my daughter almost daily. After devouring the chapters I started long ago to chronicle her path, aptly named “She is Not a Duck,” she cried.

“I loved it.” Cleansing tears served as her therapeutic boost.

She remembered how sick she was and the disconnect from reality she experienced. My daughter recognized her growth in wellness and appreciated how far she’d come.

She can’t get enough of the stories I write about her past.

Last week, she called to tell me about another story she had just read.

“I had forgotten all about that. Oh my God, I can’t believe I did that.”

Then, she thanked me.

Memories hold great value to her.

Her mental breaks blurred chunks of time, stole days to years from her, and she wants them back. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

We talked about not living in the past but not denying it either.

Extract what good we can from it and pay it forward.

She is a cheerleader for the masses who crowded the hallways of psychiatric wings. The wounded hears the call to help more wounded. She’s always been that way. I can’t explain it.

Mental illness is as easy to understand as 1 + 1 = B, or 17, or an apple.

For my daughter and me, open communication and humor work. I refused to give up on her. It’s far from a perfect world, but it is ours and we earned the improvement.

Last week, my daughter posted on my Facebook wall. When it popped up, I immediately pictured that twinkle in her eye when we find ourselves witty.

Light. Sparkle.

Her bright eyes are my favorite to witness.

Hopeless to hopeful has its own timeline.

The better days finally outweigh the dark ones.

Today, she doesn’t hate me for writing about her journey through my eyes. Tomorrow, she might change her mind. One day she may write her own stories.

Mental illness comes with a lot of wild cards. Mutual respect will prevail; ultimately, it’s my story to tell and she applauds me.

No hate for me, my words, or my writing.

I remain hopeful.

I am not alone and neither are you.

Join Medium with my link below and they will send me a token of support ❤

Connect with me and say hello!

Substack|Simily|Kindle Vella Nonfiction|Kindle Vella Fiction