amor

*Berman is the personification of my psychiatric disorder.

Since I was a toddler, I have created a safe space for myself in every setting. In my early days, you could find me high in the branches of a tree, pondering life and watching it unfold beneath me. You might have discovered me in the roots of a tree, taking a nap or playing by myself; the tree wrapping her arms around me. Everywhere, I built nests. When I was blessed with a little sister, I occupied the top bunk and she slept below. I created a makeshift canopy made of an old bed sheet attached to the ceiling with push pins, concealing my space. I inherited a fourposter bed from my mom when I acquired my own room, and I covered it in the same manner.

Through the years, I have discovered other forms of hiding. My room was my sanctuary. I have always loved having pockets, not only providing cover for my hands, but occupying them. It’s always difficult to figure out what to do with my hands in a social setting. Hence, pockets! In the sixth grade, I hid my body every day with a jacket three sizes too large. At the age of twelve, I felt a storm brewing under that jacket. Rain leaked from my eyes, leaving wet trails down my face each night. My little sister was outside my bedroom door, begging to help me. I turned her away, considering this a private struggle. I was confused, sad and angry. I was full of dread with no apparent reason. I hid from this illness under jackets, beneath ancient familiar blankets, and sweatshirts with hoods. I tried to block it all out, and unfortunately that included my sister.

I build nests when I feel uncomfortable. In the psychiatric hospital, I disappeared into the recesses of a special hooded sweatshirt. Even now, I sometimes do the same. I bury my face in the folds of an old family quilt, and curl up in my dad’s old sleeping bag. I require much space. When I am overwhelmed and anxious, I spend the night under a weighted blanket. Hiding in my nests comforts me. This is a key ingredient in my stability formula. We all cope differently with the tools we are provided. Building nests has been my specialty. I recognize that Berman will always find me, despite an excellent hiding spot; however, I enjoy a few moments of peaceful solitude.

–SJB

My family moved to Savannah, Georgia when I was halfway through eighth grade. My parents wanted to give me a high school education at one school, so that I would have the same friends for four years. I hoped to be acquainted with those kids in middle school. This plan failed miserably. I was remarkably behind in my studies when I reached the second half of my middle school experience. Many of the students in my classes were in the sixth grade. The friends I was supposed to meet had advanced classes together and had known each other for several years. There was no place for me. I was an outlander.

When I reached public high school, the lessons were difficult. I was still attempting to catch up. I attended Geometry and Algebra ll simultaneously while my middle school alum had finished Geometry in the eighth grade. I am terrible at math. I had three private tutors and remember nothing. I believe that was the result of “cramming.” Why did we fall subject to the torture of Algebra? It was certainly a waste of my time. Why was I forced to agonize over math homework while my sisters enjoyed a video in the next room over?

Aside from schoolwork and friends I was supposed to make, life became increasingly more challenging. I was manic for the entire first year of high school. I was hyper sexual, filled with energy and productivity, artistically inspired, and daring the Sandman to catch me. I made colossal mistakes, promises I couldn’t keep, and lost weight when I had little to lose. My handwriting was atrocious, but my grades were high. I was hyper focused. I behaved strangely in class, faking injuries and stretching on the floor. The guys I wanted relationships with had no interest in getting caught up in my mess, but others took advantage of my vulnerability. My illness began to expand, and turned in all the wrong directions. I carried a lunch box full of small toys, and handed out Mardis Gras beads to those in need of a smile; in that case, a laugh. I was known as “Bead Girl.”

There were other red flags, but encompassing all of this chaos, I was starved for creative control. The high school I was attending had one art class, and that would not quench my thirst. I was so embarrassed once I “came to,” even though it wasn’t my fault. I switched schools. The high school dream of making friends, staying in one school, and being happy there for four years was shattered. I transferred to a performing arts high school, where I studied and created visual art. I was happier, but not “manic happy.” The Bead Girl moved on.

–SJB

I suppose I have been dealing with mental illness in some form for the entirety of my life. I have been climbing the cliff for a long time. The path set before me has been challenging, to say the least. As a child, I was shy and quiet. I rarely smiled in public. Memories change and twist as years press on, but looking back I wonder if I had the energy to smile. Possibly I hid my battle deep inside, away from the eyes of those looking on. I had a happy childhood, no complaints and no regrets. I had no reason to frown, yet my face was frozen. Leading up to my first bout with depression, I cried myself to sleep every night. I didn’t recognize what I was up against.

I was usually a happy kid, though I was often sad and angry. My little sister, Jessica, had a bedroom next to mine. We fought a lot. After an evening fight, we would wake up the next day and forget the reason for our discord. The point was moot. We share a deep connection, and love each other unconditionally. She would come to my door at night, hearing me weep. She was concerned for me, as always. I turned her away, even though she only meant to help. I wanted to be alone in my grief over intangible issues. Years flew by like butterflies drifting in the wind, fighting for their lives. What happened? Who was I? Who am I now?

I am curious about how different my life may have been if only I were not born this way. When I ponder this topic, I realize that I was born this way for a reason. Without my experience, I could not help others. If there were a cure, I would not entertain the idea. My mental illness is not who I am, but it is certainly part of my identity.

I think about that shy and quiet little girl. She was sad. She was anxious. She was young. She was brave. I am no longer shy or quiet. I over-share. I ramble. I repeat myself more than often. That little girl travels within my heart and I will always protect her. I hope she would be proud of me now. I opened my mouth and let out her story. Now, I smile.

–SJB