my illness commonplace

diagnosed too often long ago

bipolar cyclic insanity manic depression

oh how I long for those blasted highs

that shot me up magnificent unstoppable invincible

only to lay me lower than I thought a man could go

for a period that felt like every cat's life had past

and then up I went fighting invisible dragons

with the shifting of the sun's angle

only to fall like the wicked in my own vomit feces

till the meds came and evened me like a pancake

dry gummy fried over easy chalk in my mouth

and then you sit leering over me

expecting to hear me retell every sordid tale

to which you nod hmmm take notes on crumbled paper

trash thrown to the floor I will never be whole you say

I spit you out to grab back on the horse that brung me

but the pony won't gallop do tricks I've lost my ride

so back into darkness Plato's cave to meander

lost alone to find soul mind meaning self

which self is me?

do I exist without my illness?

medicated unmedicated who am I?

It was a strange world to say the least, had he changed that much? Or had society changed and he missed it? Being a bit of a loner, the social norms of the past had been swept away without him knowing it. What was once acceptable, was no longer. What was once taboo, was now common place. He now had to watch what he said and how he said it. For things could be misinterpreted, and things could go arye, as they had not long ago. Thinking back, he would often wonder how this all came to be. Being born in the 60s, living through the 80s and 90s. He had thought all the struggles of the past would have changed the world for the better by now. The realization of how terribly wrong things went, would set his mind on a downward spiral. Seeking help and trying to be proactive. He reached out for help. While there were good people in the system, it had become more about controlling others behavior and having authority over them, more so than excepting someone for who they were, limitations, differences ect. He had been judgmental in the past himself, now the chickens were coming home to roost. Past memories, experiences, good and bad. Overwhelmed, the mind shut down like computer crashing. Would he ever be able to recover what was lost? Feeling like jack Nicholson in one flew over the coo koos nest, this was now how he viewed the world, it had indeed changed, but not for the better. For him it seemed to be one big insane asylum, with small glimmers of hope and an occasional meeting of a couple good people, he would press forward,hoping for the best,expecting the worst. embracing prayer, for the world that once was and could have been.

Born at Grady Memorial Hospital to a single mother already burdened with four children, my journey into the world began with a decision that would shape my understanding of what family truly means. At just three days old, I was entrusted to the care of my maternal aunt and uncle, a couple who would become my true parents in every meaningful way.

My earliest memories are filled with the warmth and security provided by my aunt and uncle. At the age of four, I started Pre-K, and each day began with my aunt gently waking me, dressing me, and walking me to the Head Start program. Those walks are etched in my memory, marked by the sight of Jerry Springer billboards promoting his show—a small yet significant detail of a time when I felt safe and loved.

However, at the age of six, my life took a dramatic turn. Driven by a custody battle initiated by my aunt, my biological mother intervened and took me away. I believed I was moving in with my mother and siblings, but instead, I found myself under the care of another aunt. This transition marked the beginning of a dark and tumultuous period.

In this new environment, my aunt's constant drinking and my mother's sporadic visits left my older brother as the primary caregiver. Initially, his care seemed like a blessing until he began to hurt me, taking me from my bed and subjecting me to abuse. Fear and isolation became my constant companions. I barely knew my mother and siblings, which left me with no one to confide in, no one to protect me.

At the age of eight, a lady name Mrs. Harty intervened who I later found out was Child Protective Services (CPS), forcing my mother to step up and assume her role. She secured a house and reunited our family, minus my older brother, who was incarcerated. For a while, it seemed like we might achieve some semblance of normalcy. My mother cooked meals and spent time with us, but the return of my brother shattered any hope of stability. His presence plunged me back into isolation and despair, unnoticed by those around me.

By the age of fifteen, I found solace and strength in a relationship with a boy. He was my first love, and for the first time, I opened up about the abuse I had endured. He encouraged me to tell my mother, believing that it would bring relief and justice. Summoning all my courage, I confided in her. Initially, it seemed she believed me, but that hope was short-lived. I overheard her telling her boyfriend that I was lying, that I had fabricated the entire story. This betrayal was a final blow, forever altering my perception of her.

At seventeen, I made the difficult but necessary decision to leave home and never look back. This decision marked the beginning of my journey towards healing and redefining what family means. My story is not one of shared DNA but of discovering true family in those who provide unconditional love, support, and safety. Leaving my biological family was the right decision. It allowed me to reclaim my life and define family on my terms. It taught me that true family is chosen, not born. Despite the hardships, I have found strength and peace in my journey.

In the end, having the same DNA doesn't make you family. My maternal aunt and uncle, who took me in as an infant and showered me with love and care, were my real family. They taught me that family is defined not by blood but by the love and security we give and receive. Despite the pain and challenges I faced, I learned the true meaning of family and found the strength to carve my own path forward.

Through these experiences, I have come to understand that family is a choice, a bond forged by love and resilience. It is about who stands by you, who cares for you, and who helps you grow. My journey, though painful, has shaped me into who I am today and has given me a deeper appreciation for the people who have been my true family. My story is a testament to the strength it takes to leave a toxic situation and the resilience required to build a new life from the ashes of the old.

At 30, my life is a vibrant canvas woven with love, resilience, and cherished bonds. Five wonderful kids fill our home with laughter, and my husband’s unwavering love anchors us. My best friend, a companion of 15 years, shares secrets and coffee with me. Sometimes, I wonder if my kids miss having a grandmother or aunts. But then I remember my own journey—the scars, the fractured ties. So, I become their everything, weaving stories and traditions. Love knows no bloodline here; we create our own family.

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

I can still see her being held down by nurses on the hospital bed, having overdosed on pills, delirious. She said, over and over, to me: help me. Later, she would go on dialysis, and would tell me it was the most traumatizing thing that had ever happened to her. But lying on that hospital bed, she hadn't gotten there yet. She pleaded: it gets better, right? But of course it doesn't, and wouldn't, and it would be two more near death experiences, dozens of rejections from friends and lovers, and several hospital visits before I once again sat at her bedside, and said, "It doesn't get better, but it does get easier."

Anyone who says, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" is full of shit, because mental illness is not glamorous, it is vital signs that are through the floor, vomit on your favorite dress, people leaving because it's easier than staying.

Mental illness is watching people disintegrate in front of you, when it could all be so simple. They could put down the bottle or razor blades or pills, eat something, go to a meeting. But it's actually disgusting, people taking away your right to exist because it is uncomfortable for them.

She said recently: people are so patronizing. And they are. Recently someone flagged one of my Instagram posts and I got a pop up message from Instagram saying, "someone is worried about you" with hot line numbers. Hot line numbers. We both laughed heartily, and she said, "Now someone can say they did they did their good deed for the day." "Now they can sit back and say, I saved her." Needless to say, we laughed until we cried.

Mental illness is having a panic attack and being told, at urgent care, that you are "fifth in line, please have a seat." Mental illness is getting an EKG because it is "standard procedure for your condition." What's an EKG, you're wondering. It's where they put little sticky electrodes on your chest and read your heart, as if they could ever know what happens in there. They read your medical results on a screen, and then have the audacity to say, "you're fine, go home," and you of course just skip on home, because you're fine, you are cured, your heart lied and you are not broken, for that's what the doctor said. Now please pay $2,000 and go back to zero.

Mental illness is having people leave because it's easier than staying. I already said that somewhere in this piece of writing though, and you're wondering, why is she repeating herself. I'm repeating myself because it is damn fucking hard to watch as your mental condition leaves people raising an eyebrow, judging you, making condescending statements that are either 1) heinously untrue ("you could just get better") or 2) completely valid, which is of course infuriating ("you could just get better").

You're probably wondering: why is she shitting on everyone who just wants to help? I think back to the American medical system, which is completely for profit, and the medical gaze of nurses and doctors who want to give you pills that earn them some extra income. I'm thinking back to her body pinned on the hospital bed, and the fact that it was about to get so much worse, and my only words were, "It doesn't get better, but it does get easier."

Middle school was rough for me. Actually, 4th grade to present day (and probably future) were difficult. I don't know what started it. It happened, and now I'm like this.

Hell, I only recently started to get medicated for my anxiety and depression, and we're still messing around with drugs to find the right combo. We talked about setting me up with therapy, but we haven't and probably won't before I move off to my dorm in two months.

I definitely have more issues than anxiety and depression, but not my problem today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not.

I feel like I'm at a carnival. I keep going up and down on the roller-coaster. Eating stuff I know can't be healthy for me and I'll for sure end up puking up later. Trying to win at the rigged games.

(Sometimes I sleep more than half of the day. Sometimes I don't sleep at all. Sometimes I feel giddy for no reason, sometimes everything annoys me. Sometimes, I feel like I hate the people I'm around, other's I want nothing more to be around them, but feel like I'm not deserving of it. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. Notice that word, it just shows that nothing is stable or consistent.)

Almost all of my friends have mental health issues and some type of illness/disability (I seem to attract people with ADHD like fly to honey) and it's so much more common than mainstream media makes it out to be.

I honestly don't know where I'm going with this. None of this is special, it's just my life.

Every day that goes by is another day I live longer than one of my best friends from middle and high school. He struggled with mental health from the age of 9. That's generally what happens when you have slight Asperger's syndrome, go to public school, are so super intelligent that some kids can't keep up with how fast you talk, you have divorced parents, two sisters to feel responsible for, and an abusive dad that you live with half of every year.

This friend was very dear to my heart, since I have siblings and family members with autism and other disorders that affect your ability to do anything having to do with other people. I would have protected him with my life had I known he was hurting so much. I'd have tracked down every bully, gotten him some much needed help to deal with his dad, anything he needed, I'd have done it.

I was his confidant. He had sworn me to secrecy, and as a person who cared about him so much, I kept my oath. He would come to school and tell me about what his dad had done this time. He'd lay his head on my shoulder, and I'd tell him I was there for him, that everything was going to be alright. I treated him like my own flesh and blood. It was almost as if he was.

I caught wind a few months before what he did that he had a crush on me. He told one of his gay friends, knowing that she would support him all the way. She accidentally let the secret out though, and he was confronted by another useless bully about how he could never have a real relationship with a girl, and, as an added bonus, made a joke about out of everyone, why her? All I focused on in his one moment of true need, was tha fact that I was also being put down. I wasn't there for him like I should have been. I didn't support him, like I always swore I would.

Then a few weeks later, schools were closed indefinitely. Everyone was told to stay home, and not to go see anyone. Seeing as it was his dad's week, he was now stuck alone with his dad in the house for weeks. I told him everything would be fine, just to try and stay calm and mind his own business, so that nothing bad would happen with his dad. God, I should have told someone. I just let him go off and be trapped with his mentally and physically abusive jack of a dad.

I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't communicate with many people back then. Just the one person I had a phone number for. I looked him up in an old fashioned phone book, trying desperately to find a way to talk to him. I went walking in his neighborhood, hoping I would happen to run into him. I never did.

Then virtual school started. He was there. And nothing looked wrong. So I though he was okay. We emailed through our school account, and talked like nothing was wrong. He would tell me about how things were, and I'd tell him the latest drama with my sister. We both enjoyed our time chatting in our free time. It became a habit.

School was partially opened back up by the winter time. We were so excited because we'd both be at school at the same time, since our last names were close together. We got to ride the bus to our fancy smart people magnet school together (he clearly belonged there, but had to help me with everything, but I was not the brightest in the room, ever. In fact, it was him. He was always the smartest).

We would sit on the bus with our masks covering most of our faces, and talk. Just like old times. And that's when he decided to tell me that it was getting bad with his dad again. He told me it had been rough, but that he was handling it. Until his dad started drinking again. Then it got much, much worse than I was ever around to hear about. I didn't know what to do. I told a friend, without using names, and asked what she thought I should do. She told me to listen to him, to keep his secret until he was ready to tell someone. I didn't want to, because I knew my friend was hurting, mentally and physically, but I listened. I told no one after that.

One day we sat on the bus talking about what we wanted to study in college, what we wanted to be when we grew up. This was a day that we had a very hard math lesson. I, of course, understood none of it, and he was acing the practice tests already. That's when he told me he wanted to be a math teacher. He wanted to teach a program like the one we were in, because our teacher inspired him. I thought he would make an amazing teacher, and I told him that. He coughed a little after telling me that, so I scooted away slightly, not in a mean way, just in a covid social distancing kind of way.

He didn't come to school the next day, so I assumed he was sick. Then the weekend went by, and he wasn't in school monday or tuesday either. I assumed he was quarantined, and that he was sleeping, so that was why I hadn't heard from him. I didn't really think too deep about it. On tuesday night, I was sitting at the table doing my homework, like a responsible high school honors student, and I get a notification on my computer. It made a loud ding, since my volume was on, so my mom heard it, being a few feet away in the kitchen.

I read the message, from one of my friends who is known for being very goofy, always cracking some joke or another, sometimes very dark humor jokes.

The message said "abby did u hear what happened to m (not full name for privacy)?

I responded "no what"

She said "he's gone abby. he committed."

At first, I didn't know what she meant. I was mostly a sheltered child, and I hadn't been getting the full high school experience thus far, so I had no idea what that meant. So I responded, "what? theft?" with a laughing emoji.

She took a long time (only a few minutes but not instantly like the other messages) to respond to that one. When she did, she said, "abby i'm going to say it like this so you understand. he died. suicude. yesterday."

I read that message over and over again, even weeks after that. In the moment, I just stared at it, not able to move. I guess my mom noticed the look on my face, because she asked me what happened. I told her I needed some air. I went outside and my dad was setting a fire to burn some wood. So I went out and sat in front of it for hours, staring at the flames, thinking about him, our last conversation, his face; hoping I'd never forget a single part of him.

All of this to say, to this day, I'm not the same person I was before he was gone, but I know now how I should go about helping someone who is struggling, or at least what not to do.

And I've blamed myself so many times in the three and a half years since he's been gone, but I've learned how to cope with that pain also.

The biggest thing I've learned through all of this is that you never know what people are going through, even if you think they're telling you. Some battles can't be fought without a little courage, and giving someone that little push or glimmer of hope can save their life.

I hope that if I come across anyone else in my lifetime who struggles with some burden or weight, that I can help them carry it, or at least unload just a fraction of the baggage to make the climb possible.

Just like the wind

you come and go

floating away

on the thermals

which brings you

to tornadoes

of your hard life

But the wind knows

its way home

home to my heart

you can take

some breath again

With every time

the wind brings you

back home to me

I feel that the wind

is lifting me up

higher to other spheres

I never have imagined

With each thermal

you bring to me

I am growing

to find my own way

on my way to the sun

Giving me strength

light and warmth

to love myself

so I can move on

to higher thermals

catching the wind

softly and serenely

While I find you

you who don’t give up

finding a way out

fighting against

trying to fly around

the tornadoes

of your hard life…

Author’s note: I wrote this poem about the deep layers of love and compassion with its challenges and struggles between me and my best friend/lover with mental health issues.

©® SunRise - All rights reserved

I wrote.

I have written myself out of it all.

I wrote when I was molested as a child,

fingers soft and unsure upon keys.

I wrote as a teen, far more troubled and unable to die,

my penmanship a horrid thing but salve for torrid thoughts.

The bump on my pinky remains-

not on my dominant hand, but a sympathetic and anxious picking habit.

As a young adult now broaching mid twenty I write. Lost. Uncertain. Trying to write myself to salvation.

My head burns with memories of things I cannot expel,

of people who do not care for me beyond my body or means,

and it is all too much.

Therapy was mandatory to continue my high school years, and now it forbids me any thought of self harm.

Even my own head is not my own,

but I do not demure.

With a belly full of constant anxiety that aches like a familiar broken bone, I write.

And hope that shall be enough.

What I am about to say,

I mean no harm.

It became serious to me

When she stabbed me in the arm.

I always thought that mental

Was just being mean.

Until the day,

The grass wasn't green.

The sky wasn't blue

But it all seems red.

An argument started on

Every word that I said.

I leave the room

My narcissist followed.

I was screamed at so much

Til my head seemed hollow.

I grabbed my keys

And headed for the door.

I heard a thump and shatter

As my picture hit the floor.

I turned around and headed

Back to my room .

I got stabbed in the arm

By a broken broom.

Blood started gushing

I was about to faint.

Then she ran to me

Talking like a saint.

Was that not you that

Went off on me?

Is this blood or Kool aid

That I see?

She rushed me to the hospital

Cool and calm.

She lied about how

She hurt my arm.

Mental health is so serious

We surely don't have a clue.

How something so violent

Could end in "Baby, I love you."

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