In my family the roots of mental illness run deep through every generation. Few are left untouched by either social phobia, bipolar disorder, or schizoaffective disorder. With my diagnosis of social phobia at age nine I discovered I was no exception. However, my family also has a long tradition of strong mothers capable of helping their children shoulder the burdens of their disabilities. In her years of advocating on my behalf my mother has consistently and on numerous occasions demonstrated her persistence, support, and patience as she has helped me grapple with my social phobia and depression. A demonstration of my mother’s characteristic persistence came during my bumpy seventh grade start at Manlius Pebble Hill in 2008. In those days, I was particularly prone to
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One of depression’s most hurtful aspects is the crushing, all-pervasive feeling of loneliness it can inspire. It was this feeling of loneliness which tormented me as I lie on my hard, uncomfortable hospital bed at Four Winds Saratoga. My mother, anticipating these feelings, came to visit me one partly cloudy June afternoon. With her she brought what she knew to be my favorites: a cozy sweatshirt, a value-sized bag of mini Kit-Kat bars, and the new Pevear-Volokhonsky translation of The Brothers Karamazov. Hugging me, she gave me the items before we sat on my bed. Her eyes, sharpened by years as a psychiatric nurse, studied me for a minute before she asked, “How are you doing?” Knowing I couldn 't respond, she reassuring added, “You’ll be coming home soon.” Relieved, my eyes watered with tears as she hugged me once more before driving back to her nearby hotel. Though she had said little, that night I felt her love and support as much as ever as I quietly ate Kit-Kat bars and strained to read my new book in the
One of depression’s most hurtful aspects is the crushing, all-pervasive feeling of loneliness it can inspire. It was this feeling of loneliness which tormented me as I lie on my hard, uncomfortable hospital bed at Four Winds Saratoga. My mother, anticipating these feelings, came to visit me one partly cloudy June afternoon. With her she brought what she knew to be my favorites: a cozy sweatshirt, a value-sized bag of mini Kit-Kat bars, and the new Pevear-Volokhonsky translation of The Brothers Karamazov. Hugging me, she gave me the items before we sat on my bed. Her eyes, sharpened by years as a psychiatric nurse, studied me for a minute before she asked, “How are you doing?” Knowing I couldn 't respond, she reassuring added, “You’ll be coming home soon.” Relieved, my eyes watered with tears as she hugged me once more before driving back to her nearby hotel. Though she had said little, that night I felt her love and support as much as ever as I quietly ate Kit-Kat bars and strained to read my new book in the