Bipolar Disorder Is A Mental Illness Essay
My mother made up a lullaby for me when I was a baby. “Summer Dawn is a Summer Dawn, she’s the one I’m counting on.” The unique tune still floats through my mind, years after last hearing my mother sing it.
I have heard from my aunt and uncle – the two people who primarily raised me, in conjunction with my father – that they saw hand marks all over my legs when I was a toddler, from my mother holding me upside down and smacking me.
When I was 8 years old and living with my mother and her brother Keith in Kansas, she loved me enough to realize she could not adequately care for a child. She had taken me from my home, the east coast, less than a year and a half previously – away from my school, my friends, my father, my half-sister, my aunt and uncle. She knew her meager wages as a waitress and caterer combined with her party lifestyle of drinking with strange men in our basement were not conducive to parenting a young, developing daughter.
In the fall of third grade, I moved in with the aunt and uncle, Terry and Web, who had helped raise me since my birth. I still visited my mother and other family members in Kansas each summer.
I didn’t know about my mother’s cocaine addiction until I was around 15. She was addicted when she was eighteen…