“Everyone kept telling me I was a girl. When my mom would take me clothes shopping, I found myself cutting looks to the male section, wishing I could cross aisles and pick something I’d feel confident in. I struggled so much with trying to feel ‘pretty.’ Now, I miss being able to pick up the phone and just say ‘hi’ to my mom. Years pass, with little to no communication. I’ll always be her ‘daughter.’ No amount of hormones or surgeries will ever change that.”
“Our number one job as parents was to keep her safe, and we could no longer do that at home. There were rumors. I knew people were talking. Having a daughter with mental illness is not like having a child in the hospital with the flu or a broken bone. There were no lasagnas brought by concerned friends. No one knows what to say. It’s lonely and terrifying.”
“I took a deep breath and turned my teary eyes. An average height man locked his blue eyes on mine. Both our smiles began to rise. This was the moment I’d dreamt of my entire life.”
“I don’t let very many people into our lives, mostly because I’m spent. And one of the reasons is because of things like ‘at least.’ When you ‘at least’ me as a complex parent, I feel minimized. I feel unheard. I feel compared. If a person gives you a glimpse of their challenges, honor their experience. Validate them. Meet them where they are. And if you can’t think of anything else to say, ‘Can I get you coffee or tea?’ always works.”
“The other day, my teen began college. I offered to help her find her classes. She turned me down, so I let her go a little. That morning, she wanted to get to school early, so I offered to pack her lunch. She took me up on that offer, so I held on a little. I told her goodbye at the door and reminded her to be careful, but let go a little and didn’t ask her to text me when she arrived. But I held on a little and made sure my phone volume was way up. All their lives, we let them go so they can find out who they can be, but hold on so they know we love who they already are.”
“I started crying a lot and cutting myself. I began smoking cigarettes and drinking. I was stoned all the time. I still missed my father. Every time I saw him in town, he walked away. He ignored me, pretending I didn’t exist. And he still does, and has for 11 years.”
“People struggle to wrap their heads around it.”
“I was always told, ‘You will never be anything.’ My family didn’t believe I was struggling. I was very good at hiding it. When it did show, they called it a ‘phase.’ I convinced myself no one would notice if I was dead. I had made my decision. Nobody could change my mind. In my bedroom, I wrote my goodbyes and I did it. I started going in and out of consciousness. I could see bright colors. My vision went blurry.”
“Something magical happened. I loaded her on my back. I couldn’t see her face, but I could just feel she was happy. I would show her the world, and I wouldn’t let her diagnosis stop her from seeing the amazing beauty it has to offer.”
“I waited for the crosswalk lights to start flashing, checked again for cars, and stepped into the road. We had almost made it halfway when I saw the car. The sound of the car hitting the stroller still haunts my dreams. I pulled his tiny limp body out of the stroller and just screamed his name over and over.”
