Thirty Years Ago I Watched My Friend’s Father Drown. I Think About It Every Time My Children Go Near Water.
How can I let my kids enjoy the waterpark, pool or beach, when just a few seconds of fun floods my brain with PTSD?
It’s every teenage boy’s dream, right?
For years, my mother woke me up to take my money on a regular basis. One day when I was twelve, I finally stood my ground.
My stepdad always kept my mother’s mental illness and alcoholism under control. But after he suffered a massive stroke, everything went haywire.
Countless classmates gush about lifelong bonds forged with their study-abroad host families. I certainly had an unforgettable experience sharing a small Spanish home with a stingy señora, eating her ketchup-covered pizza and dodging Maribel’s ridiculous rage.
At four years old, my daughter starting shaking uncontrollably, sending us on a 14-year roller-coaster ride from sorrow to frustration to coping to control. It wasn’t until the seizures finally stopped that we both realized how much epilepsy had shaped us.
When your mom is bipolar and believes everything is trying to kill her, the simple act of getting to the hospital becomes a battle of epic proportions.