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In my early teen years we lived in a small Midwest town where everyone knows everyone. We were ethnic and owned a business, so we stood out as something different.
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We had just moved out of my Aunt’s house. I was making money because I turned 16 and could work full-time. But this was a completely new situation and change is always a bad stressor for the mentally ill.
I was completely alone and responsible for dealing with her psychosis. My dad could give a shit. And I alienated the only other family I had nearby, my Aunt and Uncle because we moved out of their house in secret.
They had started to become increasingly abusive, it was mostly verbal and emotional. But when my Uncle backhanded me one morning so hard that my ear rang, all because I forgot to replace his car keys on the hook. I knew I had to get out.
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My fuzzy memory recalls bathwater that was too hot for me, but she is adamant that the water was just fine. Water that is warm to adult skin can feel scorching to toddlers.
I guess we were both right.
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Her schizophrenia used to permeate every aspect of my life. My own diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) exposed what I could no longer hide. No matter how strong and resilient, I have not escaped undamaged. It took the birth of my child for me to have the courage to believe I am allowed to live.
Damaged? Yes, but not defeated.
She’s obsessive with phone calls and it’s something that has always driven me up the wall.
