brain dead.

at 31, my brain still catches fire sometimes. i feel it before it happens now. i'm aware of it. i can't necessarily stop it but i'm so much more mindful of my thoughts, my actions, the lives of other people and what role i play in them.

i think 2016 haunts me the most because that was one of the worst times i ever went through with my bipolar disorder. it was before i even knew it was there. i thought my grandiose ideas and non-existent sleep schedule and constant need to be in love were normal. i thought that was happiness. i thought that's what everyone else around me was feeling too. i had no idea that i was spiraling. i had no idea that my constant, racing, obsessive thoughts were cause for concern, i just thought i was smarter than everyone else (l o l).

when my mom overdosed in front of me that year, i had to keep her cradled in my arms while we waited for the paramedics to come. i had to watch her lips turn blue and feel her skin turn cold beneath my fingertips. i'd already been struggling before that day. already been mentally slipping. but that moment - those few minutes that felt like hours, made something inside me break. my mania took off in ways i can't even begin to explain. i packed up my shit two days after that, moved to a city i'd never been to that was 2500 miles away from my hometown, lived in a motel for two weeks, and then ended up living with someone off craigslist and thought i was the most stable, well-put together 22-year-old this earth had ever seen even though i was still very much stuck in that hallway with her. still completely fucking traumatized by watching her almost die, again and wondering, as always, if it was somehow all my fault.

i think that point in time will always haunt me the most because everything changed after that. my bad habits were no longer manageable or something i could keep tucked away. i fucking hurt everyone around me. it felt like i was in a speeding car with no brakes and no one in the driver's seat. i had no idea what i was doing. i was so hurt and scared and out of my head and i just kept running. kept fucking up. kept burning bridges because i didn't know what else to do. it's not an excuse and it's not something i'm proud of, but i wish so bad i could sit down with that version of myself and get her the fucking help she needed.

it wasn't until i was 25, living alone in a one-bedroom apartment, putting myself on some crazy 500 calorie deficit "diet" for three months, fucking everyone in sight, not sleeping for days at a time, and eating painkillers like they were candy that i finally stopped and admitted defeat. it was the first time i really felt it, how not right all of this truly was. how those big, huge spurts of anger and happiness and absolutely everything in between had never been normal.

from 25 to 28, i did 3 full psych evals, went to 4 psychiatrists, 3 doctors, and 4 therapists. got bounced around from medication to medication before finally, fucking finally i got a proper diagnosis and was prescribed something that actually made my brain relax after years of crippling anxiety and mania and depression that nearly ended me more than once.

i still don't know what i'm doing most days. i still don't have it all figured out but i know for sure that i'm softer now. i know that my thoughts aren't nearly as tangled. i know that i try way fucking harder than i ever did before and there's comfort in that. there's comfort in not constantly being afraid of what new, terrifying, overwhelming emotion my brain is going to throw at me next. the static still comes in waves, it's not something that will ever fully go away but it's something i've at least learned how to coexist with and that's all i think i can really ask for given the things i've been through.

Last Wednesday my mom got sent to rehab after a bag of speed convinced her that bugs were burrowed under her skin again - her brain and body both somehow disintegrating even more than they already have been the last few years.

Since she got dropped off, it’s forced me into working a full time job, maintaining my house, and now also maintaining my dad’s house too while she’s away. They’re keeping her for two months under an assisted living program. As much as I want to believe it’s a step in the right direction, I’m not 15 anymore. It’s hard to not see this for what it actually is: a waste of money. A last ditch effort to save a woman who’s been desperately knocking on death’s door for over 30 years now. Watching her waste away has been one of the most painful and life-altering things I think I’ll ever go through. My feelings for her mostly lie dormant as an adult, but some days they still manage to surface and pour out in ways that I can’t really put into words.

After working a 10 hour shift today, grocery shopping for my dad and then taking their dog for a walk while he’s at work, I came back inside my childhood home and rummaged around the garage. I couldn’t really tell you why. There was nothing specific I was looking for, but when I found a file cabinet that held three large folders tilted: “NA Resources”, “CPS Court Docs”, and “Bankruptcy” wedged between some of my old drawings, I almost laughed. It was oddly fitting. Trauma mixed with glitter. The story of a broken home, only all of the hauntingly painful memories were illustrated by a fifth grader who watched too much anime. 

I read through the court documents, realizing that out of all of the insane amount of dates I remember, these were ones that I’d somehow managed to block out entirely. “January 6, 2006: The state of Indiana has determined the natural mother is not a suitable guardian for the child and will be placing the child as ward of the state until the next hearing. CPS was initially brought into the home after the child’s mother had overdosed on cocaine in April 2005 and the child had missed 24 days of school. The last two court-ordered drug tests conducted have come back positive for opiates to which the mother denied any involvement in.”

I remember going through it. I remember being asked horrible and insanely insensitive questions as an 11 year old girl, like if my dad had ever touched me inappropriately and if I felt safe in my house and if my mom had ever been violent with me. I remember the day she OD’d and the way my dad had to explain to me what cocaine was and how her ribs had been broken when the paramedics did CPR on her while I sobbed into his chest. I remember the CPS worker we had and how wildly nervous I would get every time she knocked on the door. I remember being told by my parents that I couldn’t tell anyone what was going on, for any reason, ever. I remember not trusting anyone and barely talking, always afraid that I’d slip up and say something I wasn’t supposed to. I remember being told that I had to go to school every day no matter what and keep good grades and be quiet and be well behaved and smile and act normal and that if I failed to do any of these things, I’d be placed in foster care. I’d no longer belong to my parents and I’d never be able to see them again. The weight of my mom’s mistakes were placed so heavily on my shoulders that I still feel them 19 years later. That immense pressure of “if you don’t do x, y, and z absolutely perfectly, you’ll ruin everything, it will all be your fault.” A sense of dread that never really goes away no matter how much time passes. 

I found letters I’d written to her, all addressed with the same heart-breaking request, “please only read if you’re sober”. It’s very jarring to see those words written in such small, shaky handwriting and to know that they belonged to a hurt middle-schooler who was already terribly confused and lost in life. Every letter, the same - all expressing feelings of betrayal and hurt and arguably worst of all - ending in the same sentiment of, “I love you so much, mom. I know you can get better. I’ll help you in any way I can.” No matter how hard she pushed me away, I never stopped running back to her. I never stopped trying. I never stopped loving her.

It’s very weird looking back at all of this through the lens of a thirty-year-old woman. I’ll never have kids, but I couldn’t imagine subjecting anyone to the things she subjected me to. To leave me alone for days on end when I was in elementary school because I was too much of a headache to deal with. The summers I got left with her friends and she’d only stop by to visit once a month because she couldn’t stand to be around me for too long. The night she almost hit me with her car when I was in high-school because I stood behind it with my arms outstretched, sobbing and begging her not to go. I couldn’t imagine doing that to anyone. Not a child. Not another human being. No one.

I think teenage-me coped by romanticizing her addiction. By turning her bad habits into some broody, artsy, deep, meaningful thing that other people just wouldn’t understand because it hurt a lot less to look at her this way. To see her as a beautiful, tortured poet rather than what she actually was: a neglectful and absent mother. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me, it was that she didn’t know how. I’d tell myself that over and over. Pretty words to cover up a harsh reality. Trauma and glitter. The story of a broken home now being illustrated by a 16-year-old who had a sick, unrelenting, void in her chest, who would fuck anyone if it meant the possibility of being held for five minutes afterwards.