Resilience
It’s not easy being the child of two meth addicts, or being part of a legacy of mental illnesses, or having to deal with my own bipolar disorder and PTSD. The amount of people with mental illness in my family who have been attracted to and reproduced with other people who have mental illnesses, giving way for more people with mental illnesses...is astounding. It is truly incredible how all these people conglomerated together.
I fucking love all of them.
It wasn’t always that way, though.Their idiosyncrasies were not always the easiest to embrace. Seeing Dad get arrested outside of my preschool and Mom being thrown over a car hood by her abusive husband at the time were not the sparkling moments of my younger years. These are just the cards we’ve been dealt.
When I was about four years old, I dealt with PTSD, anxiety over being around a lot of people, and paralyzing nightmares. I was diagnosed with depression when I was six years old. You could say that my childhood was not all sunshine and daisies.
I adored my mom throughout my childhood--she was the best thing since sliced bread. But as I grew up, our relationship grew more complicated. I tried to understand her but the things she did to take care of me when I was younger --like feed me sticks of butter--made me angry as I realized those were things you just don’t do to take care of a child. She didn’t know how to be a mom in her “younger, partier” days.
While she was getting clean, I would see her twice a year in rehab. I made paper chains when I was little--the kind that were taped with hope and Scotch tape in each ring. I would rip one ring off day-by-day until I could see her again. Sometimes, the day would come when I could see her but the people at the center told me I couldn’t.
Gram protected me and raised me. She’s an incredible, independent woman with brown spiky hair and blond tips that characterize the equal amount of spunk and love she has for those around her. Gram’s an absolute gift. Everyone needs a Gram in their life. However, moving around ten times back and forth between Mom and Gram can take a toll on a child. While Dad got cleaner a lot faster, it took my Mom until I was around eight to get clean.
I still remember the music blaring, shaking the thin walls of my mom’s apartment. People drinking, shooting up, and doing things that no child should ever see. Their drinks clinked together, leaving stains on the carpet, while their voices echoed in the overwhelming chasm of addiction used to avoid the turbulent blows of life. Another night, another rave in our apartment thrown by my mother. All I remember was that I hit my head, and all of sudden faces blurred and echoing voices seeped in and out of my consciousness. And in the midst of all of these colorful faces and blurs, I could not find my mother anywhere.
When you’re taken away from someone you love in such an explosive manner, all because she can’t take care of you in the moment, you kind of explode at other people, too.
Naturally all this shit leads to more shit. PTSD, nightmares every single night, anxiety over being around a lot of people, anxiety in general, bipolar disorder, depression... These are things that I experienced and still experience. These are labels that describe me, but there’s so much more to me than that and so many things going on behind these inaccurate labels. My life has always been chaotic, and doesn’t seem to be getting any less so with time, but the implications behind the words “bipolar disorder” don’t address the vitally chaotic life I live-- they only emphasize society’s misconceptions.
When I was eight years old, I moved in permanently with my Mom. She had my little sister when I was nine, and I resented my sister for that. She got to grow up without all of the shit that I had to go through. My sister never had to see my mom break down because of her addiction, or struggle with the ghosts that haunt you after you see your mom go through that. I remember having a mental breakdown at the end of the my seventh grade year: depression was a monster I had to tackle every day with no armor to prepare me for the battle.
Depression, anger, fights at school, and repeat.
Sometimes life throws you curveballs, like a picture of the sister your mom put up for adoption fifteen years ago and you don’t know how to deal with the way her ginger hair and freckles look strikingly similar to your mom’s features.
Sometimes, these features grow beautiful as you realize that your mom is the sweetest person in the world, and that you shouldn’t blame her any more for her faults, because she already knows them fully.
And sometimes life allows you to go to a world-renowned university called UCLA.
I’m not good with change. I think that’s why the transition into UCLA was such a rocky one. The depression and anxiety from a new place was something I couldn’t handle. While I had some medication for the short term, I could only handle so much, and I went home on the weekends a lot. If it weren’t for my girlfriend, I don’t know if I would’ve gone to get help again.
They bumped up my medication in December, and that’s when I made some crazy decisions. I bought an XBox 360, spent a ridiculous amount of cash, and lashed out more. Over break, I couldn’t sleep at all. Later, they told me I was experiencing a manic episode--something that happens when you put a type-two bipolar disorder person on antidepressants.
After a while, it became too much to handle, and I entered a mixed state of mania and depression. They put me on Abilify, a drug that messes with your dopamine levels, but makes you forget things. As the quarter went on, I couldn’t handle the frustration of being enrolled in classes where I needed to memorize things. I’m trying to function as a human being, and you expect me to be a student, too? Heck no, I can’t do that on Abilify. So they put me on Ritalin and slowly took me off Abilify.
I’m still not 100%, and my story doesn’t end with a big shiny bow tied onto a neat package of life. But I feel good without all the medications I used to take. I feel more like myself. I can be creative; a version of myself that can think outside the box. My mind just jumps everywhere, but it allows me to get shit done--like being the director of five campus orgs, running the Volunteer Center’s website, and pursuing neuroscience and my goals of becoming a doctor to help understand other people’s crazy minds .
I feel like people are just waiting for me to break down again, and I know if I do, I’ll need more medication.
But I’m not going to live my life waiting for that to happen.