My Attempt To Untangle Adolescence With A One-Way Trip To California
It’s taken me years to understand the mental health needs I’ve had since childhood
I was twelve years old when I rage-walked to the wooden butcher block and raised a knife towards my mom in anger.
“Put that down!” Mom commanded, her tone cutting straight to my heart.
I put the knife down and crumbled into a shaking fetal ball in the living area. I don’t remember what the fight was about. It must be lurking in the recesses of my brain.
I remember the next day—the phone call. I’d been begging Mom to let me live with Dad in California. That meant she’d have to ask him if he’d take me.
Trembling in my bedroom, I heard low whispers and panic, “She’s out of control. I can’t do this anymore.”
She wasn’t wrong. I felt like a ball of loose wires, spinning in space, untethered by anything.
At 41, I find myself in a psychiatrist’s office — not for the first time. The receptionist asks me intensely personal questions: “Fever, aches, nausea, vomiting? Been out of the country? The list is posted on her glass window. I look back at Mom with questioning eyes.
