Long Reads

I have a mental illness. I am mentally ill. I can barely bring myself to say the words. I have not uttered the phrase “I am mentally ill” out loud.

I learned to hide my lupus diagnosis as if it were a crime. I became skilled in the art of misdirection.

The echo. It’s there. It’s what women are told. We’re too sensitive, too emotional; we’re overreacting. Why can’t we be rational, reasonable?

Once I learned how to discuss my bipolar disorder, I stopped defining myself by my illness and started talking about my emotions as well as my struggles.

I was terrified of falling away from the faith I once believed in so strongly. We had to believe in the miracles because our day-to-day lives were so empty.

Daughters are experts on their mothers; my sister and I see precisely what is changed — so changed — in my mother’s face.

I knew before I truly knew. When the icon revealing the new Facebook message from Daisy’s brother flashed on my screen, my heart fell to my feet.

Superstition ruled my mind. More than I realized. I had no idea, within hours, there’d be no child to mother. And then he was gone. And we were childless.