By Andrea Gilats, author of an important new memoir, After Effects: A Memoir of Complicated Grief .

My beloved husband, Thomas Dayton, died in 1998 at the age of fifty-two, ending his five-month battle with cancer. As you can imagine, my life changed dramatically at that point. To put it bluntly, I grieved intensely for nearly ten years and lived with unresolved grief for ten more.

After Tom’s funeral, I naively expected that each day I would feel better than the day before, and that after a few months or perhaps a year, I would somehow be myself again. Thankfully, for many of us, that is the course our grief takes. We are able to recover from even our most grievous losses by traveling a relatively straightforward psycholog­ical progression from the actual loss (bereavement), to our responses to that loss (grief), to learning to live with our loss (mourning), and to the return to a satisfying life (recovery). Along this path we might encounter ditches and detours, but experts agree that recovery from “active” grief is as normal as grief itself. But what if we cannot meet this expectation? What if this so-called recovery is somehow dis­rupted or undermined? What if these “normal” processes take an abnormally long time to take hold? What if they fail us altogether? What if something inside us will not allow us to release ourselves and move forward?

These were the questions bubbling up within me as I tried to write about my grief experience. As I wrote, I researched, and eventually, just by chance, I encountered the pioneering work of Dr. M. Katherine Shear, the founder and director of Columbia University’s Center for Complicated Grief. Through her work, I discovered that for nearly two decades, I had suffered from a known disorder called “complicated grief”: acute grief that is abnormally intense and prolonged. Even though complicated grief affects up to one in seven bereaved people, many of them never rec­ognize that the course of their grief is not normal, as I did not, and suffer in silence, as I did.

Dr. Shear tells us that grief is considered complicated if it continues to be acute for at least a year after the loss and if the bereaved person is experiencing persistent yearning or longing for the person who has died, a recurring desire to die in order to be reunited with that person, refusal to believe that the griev­ing person’s loved one is really gone forever, inappropriately intense reactions to memories of the person who has died, and “distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.”

For years, I suffered from all those painful, debilitating feelings. I had had toothaches, bee stings, and blistering sunburns; I had had influenza, the vomiting flu, and, as a four-year-old, a burning ear infection. I had had my heart broken more than once, but I had never felt pain, whether physical or emotional, that was so excruciating I could not bear it. Yet after Tom died, the unbearable became real. There I was, feeling that I would either explode or implode virtually every minute of every day, and there was no respite, there was no relief, there was no one to rescue me.

I learned then that when the spirit is so deeply wounded, the body can’t help but follow suit. Why could I not keep my food down? Why did I feel such extreme fatigue every sin­gle day? Why could I not concentrate long enough to make a grocery list? Tom was gone from my sight and I knew what constant sorrow was, but I never questioned these physical changes, even though they were ruling my life.

Had I thought to look into it, I would have learned that losing a close loved one is a singularly powerful source of stress, and stress can weaken the immune system. So while grief is not normally viewed as an illness unto itself—after all, losing our loved ones is an inevitable part of the human life cycle—it can make us physically sick. While grieving, we are more likely to catch colds, have our colds degrade into pneumonia, be plagued with insomnia when we most need to maintain our meager energy, and suffer from anxi­ety that leaves us short of breath, which makes us feel panic, which makes our hearts beat too fast, which makes us feel fear.

There is even a condition called broken heart syndrome whose symptoms mimic those of a heart attack, but without permanent cardiovascular damage. Related to broken heart syndrome is the “widowhood effect” that most commonly affects older couples and is realized when one spouse dies within months of the other. Researchers attribute this to the fact that grief causes inflammation levels in the body to rise, leading to (actual) heart attacks, strokes, and diseases like cancer that result in premature death. Unfortunately, I was a living example of this phenomenon.

I was born with what people used to call a “sensitive stomach.” I had lived with off-and-on-diarrhea, as well as related unpleasant symptoms, for most of my life, but I had learned to adapt to my condition. Then, soon after Tom died, my digestive problems worsened precip­itously. My daily bowel movements doubled from about six to about twelve each day, and some days I defecated fifteen times. Time and time again, my then doctor tried to diagnose what had become a significant disability. Finally, after seven years of inconclusive tests and failed guesses, she sent me for a colonoscopy, which confirmed that I had Crohn’s disease, an auto-immune disorder characterized by inflammation of the bowel.

Not only did I have a diagnosis, I was facing the prospect of surgery to remove two and a half inches of what the surgeon called “diseased bowel” near my terminal ilium, the place where my small and large intestines meet. Thankfully, I came through the surgery without incident and was sent home from the hospital to complete my recovery. I had been home for only two or three days when I began to feel feverish, out of sorts, fuzzy-headed, and exceptionally tired. I called my surgeon, who immediately sent me for a CT scan to determine whether my surgery site was infected. Abscesses are common after bowel surgeries, and sure enough, I had one. I was sent directly from the imaging clinic to the hospital, where I would receive intravenous antibiotics.

I was assigned to the third bed in a room originally meant for two patients. My nearest roommate was a young woman who had obvi­ously been terribly injured. Her face and neck were covered in bruises, and her left arm, including her entire left hand, was wrapped in a thick bandage. Her bed was only about five feet from mine, so I couldn’t help but overhear conversations at her bedside. The first of these was between two hospital staff women; one may have been a nurse. As the poor patient rested, awake but silent, the two confirmed to each other that the patient was scheduled for surgery the next morning to have her left hand rebuilt. Apparently, it had been crushed in a brutal beating she had received the night before at the hands of a boyfriend or husband.

Shortly thereafter, two different women came to her bedside and began a conversation with her. Very quickly, I came to understand that one was a social worker and the other a translator: my roommate spoke no English, and her social worker spoke no Spanish. Her heartbreaking story was that she had indeed been abused by her live-in boyfriend and was now suffering from the worst of the frequent beatings she had received at his hand. Somehow, she had managed to escape from their home and get to the emergency room, but her toddler daughter was still with him.

She could not return to him: she feared for her life. “What will happen to my daughter?” she asked, and then, probably rhetorically, “Where will I go? I have no place to live.” The social worker assured her that they would be sending child protection workers to get her daughter, and that she and her daughter would be placed together in a shelter where they would be safe. For now, she should not worry; she should just concentrate on her recovery. The social worker assured her that she was safe in the hospital. After this brief interview, the two left, promising to see her again the next day.

Moments later, a soft-spoken young nurse came to take my roommate to the bathroom, and having just taken my sleeping pill, I dropped off to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, my roommate had already been taken to surgery. I never saw her again.

It was not the abscess at my surgery site that had put me in the hospital the previous afternoon, it was the fact that I was allergic to the antibiotics my surgeon had prescribed. In the light of morning, this obvious fact finally dawned on me. I knew then what I had to do. I left the hospital under my sister’s care, discontinued the offending drugs, and within thirty-six hours, I began to feel human again.

            When living begins to look more promising than dying, it occurs to you at last that through your own suffering, you have learned more about the suffering of strangers, a lesson that your grief had kept from you. You think of the young woman in the hospital, and you feel more acutely how she must have suffered at the hands of her boyfriend. You feel no shame for the attention you paid to your own suffering; you simply start recovering your ability to live beyond it.

Andrea Gilats is the author of an important new memoir, After Effects: A Memoir of Complicated Grief (University of Minnesota Press, 2022), which Dr. M. Katherine Shear called “a beautifully written story of the heartbreaking problem of complicated grief,” and Restoring Flexibility: A Yoga-Based Practice to Increase Mobility at Any Age (Ulysses Press, 2015). A writer, educator, artist, and former yoga teacher, she is currently at work on a second memoir, this one about entering old age during the coronavirus pandemic. You can learn more about Andrea and her books at www.andreagilats.com.

By Kaitlin Kerr

I’ve always been close with my little sister. Growing up, we were in the same dance classes and shared the same bedroom. We even ended up going to the same college.

We were never bothered by the sameness, the closeness. We enjoyed each other’s company. Much to the dismay of our mother, after driving through three states to a family party, we’d ignore the sea of uncles and grandmothers and cousins. Always ending up hiding in a far-off corner. With a bounty of stolen cookies from the dessert platters. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, muddling our special party dresses. Giggling together.

Despite the fact she’s exactly three inches taller than me (but it’s okay, I wear four-inch platforms), I’ve always understood what it meant to be the big sister, to be looked up to. I understood my role as a companion, a confidant, and a role model.

Knowing she was there, watching me, made me better.

I refused to talk negatively about my body, knowing we share the same figure.

I refused to make myself quiet, knowing we share the same roaring laugh.

I refused to bite my tongue, knowing we share the same wit.

Soulmates are the people in our lives that we have an unexplainable affinity for. We love them, as if our beings were meant to unite. Honestly, I don’t know if I believe in soulmates. Truth be told, when it comes to love, I’m a “Miranda”-level cynic. But isn’t it a nice idea?

That two souls can intertwine.

Were meant to intertwine? 

The summer I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (garnished with Acute Anxiety Attacks), I wasn’t exactly a big sister. I wasn’t exactly a person. It was after my first year away at college and got bad once I moved back home.

By then, we weren't sharing a room anymore.

I cried almost every day. Sometimes I’d hide it, silently reclusive in my bed.  Sometimes I’d burst in the middle of dinner. Sometimes it was in the car. Most of the time it was without reason.

I spent most of that summer in a black hole.

Our dad thought I should try some drugs to help calm me down. Our mom thought I was too young for Xanax.

I was nineteen years old. My eyes permanently tinged red and patched blue. She was sixteen years old. And somehow, she knew what I needed.

I remember one particularly bad evening. I was comatose with my eyes open, swaddled in sheets soaked in the stench of a showerless week. Sometimes the safest thing to do when you’re like that is just lay down and teach yourself how to breathe.

She came into my room with the night breeze, carrying an offering of sweet peach tea. Her long golden auburn hair still dripping from the shower. Seeping and staining her white cotton pajamas.

Then instead of tenderly sitting at the foot of my bed like she was visiting a hospice patient, the way my mother did, my little sister belly-flopped herself on top of me, the way I used to when we were kids and I was up before her on Christmas morning.

She never asked why I was upset. She never asked me not to be. She met me where I was, and made sure I wasn’t alone.  

I was almost too numb to care back then.

Almost. 

I still knew what it meant to be looked up to. I was supposed to be her companion, her confidant, her role model. What kind of role was I modeling if I couldn't get out of bed?

I could’ve told her that I was seeing a therapist. That I was taking bright orange and green pills. She probably wouldn’t have cared. Hell, she’d probably be happy that I was getting help. But I am not immune to pride. She still saw me as her big sister. Her confidant. Her companion. Her role model.

I couldn’t show her the world inside my mind.

My earliest memory is picking up my little sister from the hospital. I was only three at the time. I’m not sure if this is a real memory, or if I’ve fabricated it through secondhand stories and dreams. I remember the ride in my aunt’s minivan. Listening to the radio instead of my mom’s familiar show tunes CDs. The grey plastic leather of the seats. The not-my-mom’s car smell. The layer of my cousin’s Cheerio crumbs encrusted into every crack and crevice.

I felt the same kind of nervous excitement I imagine dancers feel before they go onstage. The kind of apprehension and subtle fear, anticipation and joy.

My mother had read to me I’d Rather Have an Iguana every night for the past month. It’s a cute little picture book about a sassy stubborn older sister who is simply not happy about having a younger sibling, but despite the little girl’s best efforts, her parents decide to go through with it anyway. Although I did not share the protagonist’s proclivity for reptiles, I never resented the idea of sharing my life with another person.

Perhaps I am exceedingly lucky, or perhaps this happens with all siblings, but I feel as though I’ve shared my life with her. Not in milestones or rites of passages, per se. In the way we share the same figure, laugh, and wit; we share the same character, morality, worldview.

I remember walking into the yellow where my mother lay, glowing in the warm autumn sun. The glint of the gold wire on her old glasses. The exhausted and ecstatic energy. I remember my mother in a voice like honey telling me that she missed me.

I remember my father holding a bundle of cream blankets. Him telling me that she might look like my baby dolls back home, but my little sister was not a toy.

I remember reaching out for the bundle. Holding her for the first time, supported by the hands of my anxious father. I remember being surprised by how warm she was. Feeling her body expand with each breath. Knowing she was small and fragile and precious.

I remember loving her.

Soulmates are the people in our lives that we have an unexplainable affinity for. We inexplicably love them, as if our beings were meant to unite.

I continued to live past that summer.

And the summer after that.

Recently, my little sister confessed that she was thinking of therapy herself.  In stumbling phrases, I attempted to describe how she helped me. How she’d somehow known I needed to be sat next to, brought offerings of sweet tea. How I’d wished that I had been more open about what was happening inside my mind. In her own stumbling reply, she explained that she’d never have asked for help if I hadn’t gone first.

 I understand now that I was never in danger of losing a soulmate.

It took time and therapy and tears, but I’ve been demoted from Major to Dysthymic depression. Slowly, I became able to acknowledge and speak about the world inside my mind. It’s a little scary at first, but hopefully with enough jokes sprinkled in, you’ll understand too. I explain how the orange and green pills make me feel. How to find a good therapist. How to use your support system. How to ask for help.

To be a confidant, you must share your own secrets.

To be a companion, you must open your own soul.

To be a role model, you must share your own tears.

Accept offerings of blankets and tea.

Let your soul intertwine.

Let your heart burst.

Kaitlin is a senior at Northeastern University studying English, with a minor in Writing and a concentration in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Her poetry has been published in Spectrum Literary Arts magazine, and her opinions have been published in Tastemakers music magazine. When she’s not writing, Kaitlin enjoys tormenting her kitten, hunting for vintage clothes, and the occasional video game.  

Segment 3 of 6 in our Soul Chronicles for the Chronically Ill series.

By Shaler Wright

Health Story Collaborative · Soul Chronicles: Reclaiming What We've Left Behind

Introduction

I’d like to thank Health Story Collaborative for working with me to bring you “Soul Chronicles for the Chronically Ill.” This monthly audio series offers a soulful perspective on how to navigate the unique challenges of living with ongoing health conditions. My name is Shaler McClure Wright and I’m a writer/artist living with Chronic Inflammatory Response Syndrome.

Story

(audio clip of “Bring it on Home to Me” warm up vocals from Roger Ridley)

That’s the voice of Roger Ridley, a street musician whose soulful voice inspired the collaborative musical movement “Playing for Change.”

Roger’s warming up to breathe life into the timeless lyrics of American singer/songwriter Sam Cook:

“If you ever, change your mind,

about leavin’, leavin’ me behind—”

This music fills us with an undeniable experience of longing, reminding us of things we’ve lost and long for, and suggesting that what we’ve lost may well be lost without us too. What if the things we’ve left behind—the things we’ve had to give up because of our illness—what if they could reach out to us, and tell us how it feels?

“—oh-oh bring it to me,

bring your sweet love,

bring it on home to me.”

You see, when we give up something—like running or dancing or hiking up a mountain—because we no longer have the stamina or it causes too much pain–we’re also giving up the feelings and memories that go with that activity. You could even say, when something expresses our soul, then giving it up relinquishes a piece of our soul. And bits of soul, when split from the whole, will naturally seek to reconnect. But it’s up to us to answer their call.

This is the time of year when people try to improve their health by giving things up—like alcohol, sugar, caffeine. But in our dedication to become ‘less’ we ignore the equal and opposite idea that in order to be healthy, we also need to become ‘more’.  Like Roger Ridley and Sam Cooke, we need to reclaim some of what has been lost to us, even though, through the very act of reclaiming, those very things will be changed. Let me give you an example:

I trained as an actor for many years and was proud of my ability to memorize. Bringing words to life in scripts, stories, and poetry was joyful for me. But my illness has cognitive implications, and over time I’ve lost that ability to a great degree. So I’ve avoided opportunities where I’d be called upon to use my memory. 

But how much of that loss is based in practicality and how much is colored by pride?

While it’s true I’m no longer well suited for a leading role in a full length play, in leaving the theatre behind, I’m also leaving behind the artists who were like family to me. Effectively, I’ve exiled myself from my tribe. And exile is lonely. And loneliness goes both ways— but I never even considered the possibility that my tribe might be missing me too. I never considered that even with my impairment, there might still be some creative way I can contribute and collaborate.

And that’s short-sighted, not soulful…

Because in giving up theatre, I’m also leaving behind the imaginary worlds I used to inhabit through the playwright’s plot and a character’s dialogue. Whether it was the epic journey of a Russian classic, the treachery and forbidden romance of Shakespeare, or the hard hitting rage of a rebel like Mamet, the range of feelings I got to experience safely, in a contained space where emotional intensity was appreciated, is simply without parallel in daily life. And our creativity suffers with sameness.

Sometimes I can still hear in my head the words of a character I’ve played. Reminding me their story continues, even though I’ve stopped. Summoning my attention. And as I reconsider the impact of these words, I’m realizing that because of my illness, these words and images and feelings I’ve left behind are even more dear to me now, and my perspective on their value has deepened. 

Perhaps those of us with chronic illness can shine new light on old actions. Perhaps we can reclaim the mantle of life’s earlier loves and achievements by adapting our approach. We may not be the star athlete of a team or the lead actor in a play, but we can offer a deeper appreciation of what that was like, and give voice to the richness of those experiences.

One of my favorite theatre characters was a young woman named Wilma, from the Off Broadway play "Easter" by Will Scheffer. Wilma has recently lost her first child in childbirth, and is trying to make sense of her loss while also trying to reclaim her life with her husband Matthew.  After acting out her pain in other, inappropriate ways, she describes what she’s learned from her experience like this:

“I think the stars have told me their secret, Matthew. They said the secret to shining as bright as a star is just to live here.  Just to stay here in this impossible place.  And just like how diamonds are made in the earth, from living under the earth, under all that pressure—that's how we turn into stars.  It's like gravity is forging us.  And whenever we hurt it's just because we're changing.  We're changing into stars.”

At the time I performed that monologue I had never been pregnant and had no way of knowing that my illness would also cause problems with pregnancy. But now that I’ve been through so much to have a child of my own, I can more fully appreciate the way Wilma transformed her pain into light, and that light into a beacon of beauty.

And because I’m now a member of more than one tribe,  I can also share her words with a new audience; with people like you, who also understand what it is to have felt buried by our pain. The words have a deeper meaning in our world. And I believe Wilma and her playwright would be honored to become part of our world too. 

So now, whenever I have a rough day, I try to remember the things that gave me joy, that I abandoned too completely. And I open myself to the possibility that even though I’m not able to give them what I once could give, I just might be able to give them something new. And that’s true for all of us. But unless we open ourselves to the possibility of reclaiming the favorite things we’ve lost, we’ll never know for sure. So keep your ears open and listen for the melody of longing. It may just be your own past calling you back home.

Original recording source for song clips:

“Bring it on Home to Me” written by Sam Cooke, with vocals by Roger Ridley, recorded by Playing for Change

Shaler McClure Wright is fascinated with the mysteries of creative process, the healing power of creativity, and the creative synthesis of method acting, intuitive learning and depth psychology. A graduate of Wesleyan University and The Actors Studio, Shaler has worked as an actor, writer and educator for more than 40 years, and lives in southeastern Connecticut with her son and husband.

www.shalermcclurewright.com

Go here for more episodes of our Soul Chronicles series.

By Gillian

I was never a great swimmer. My body would tire and my muscles would ache. I’d thrash and squirm and gulp saltiness. I’ll never forget the feeling of inhaling water, the burning that sweeps through the lungs and the stinging during the slow recovery.

It was like that. The After. An inescapable breathlessness. A heaving and gasping and gulping, grasping for anything to hold onto. The in and out that skip and hasten. The airways close and the throat is no longer a tunnel but a labyrinth, constricting tighter and tighter. There’s choking for air, but the ocean is inside of you, swarming, swaying, swelling, spilling over the top.

 And the cannon fire to underscore it all. A stampede of thuds clamoring in the chest, a great crescendo echoing up to the ears, drumming to a spiraling tempo… thud, thud, thud-thud, thudthudthudthud. Like a fist pounding on a door, banging, clanging, threatening to rip it open. A ringing thunder to drown it all out…

I try not to think too much about The Before. The mythical time when you’re blissfully unaware of the ticking time bomb waiting to explode, waiting to punch the irreparable hole in your chest. The time when you took everything for granted, overlooked the one person who’d love you unconditionally. Before you’d ever known true loss, before every single ounce of pain paled in comparison to the insurmountable agony you’d feel. The time before the world shut down and you found yourself standing in a hospital room wrapped in layers of plastic, reaching out to a pale arm that was far too cold and unrecognizable… 

I’m lost in The After.

There’s disbelief. Denial, backtracking, shock. Each new question is an unsolvable riddle. How? How could this happen? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We had plans. We had tickets to that show. She was supposed to come visit me that semester. We were going to do so much when this was all over. We were supposed to be together forever. I meant to say something before… Did I get to it? Everything was fine a week ago. And we were just talking about—what’s going to happen from now on? I didn’t get any sleep last night because of my darkly wandering mind, so maybe I willed it into existence. Did she know how late I stayed up, or could she hear the TV from the living room I kept on all night?

There’s remembering. Some things are crystal clear, like steppingstones through time, while others are fogged over, like warm breath clouding a looking glass. Those flashes of memory that come with or without invitation, possessing the mind to another time, another place, another reality. Sometimes you remember things like they were yesterday, that dumb joke that made you belly laugh, those long drives down backroads just to get out of the house, the warmth that filled the apartment when the oven was on. And other times, you don’t know if you just imagined them. You’re stuck in this purgatory of re-memory.

There’s reminding. Those cruel tricks of the mind. Like phantom pain in lost limbs every time you try to walk on one foot. Like tracing the hole of a missing tooth with your tongue and being surprised each time. The constant forgetting and reminding and shock cycles in an endless loop. Reminding yourself what was lost. Turning your head to speak to a ghost. Fighting the urge to think of their name, tell them your daily grievances like you’d always do. Reliving the gut-wrenching bombshell every single time until you don’t really remember what’s missing, just the colossal, gaping hole left behind.

There’s regretting. The “what ifs” and “should haves” bounce around your mind until they pound like angry fists against your skull. It comes back in little spurts and pours down in shameful raindrops that soak your brain. Your worst moments play back in a beautifully miserable compilation, and you’re struck withs the excruciating fact that you knew better but didn’t do anything.

There’s fuming. You curse the world and everyone in it. Toss around blame like it’s a kickball on a playground. Ride the spinning carnival wheel of anger and guilt and shame. Screw those who have what I don’t and all the people it should’ve been. Screw this stupid country and all the people whose fault this is. I hate everyone and everything and all the things I used to love—I hate them, or they’re gone, too.

There’s reeling. There is no Before. There’s just this. Only trudging through murky waters and the fogginess of those nighttime hallucinations that seem all too real. Every now and then there’s a rumbling in the stomach, but it numbs if you wait long enough. I imagined my body to be a cavernous gorge, the wind rumbling through the rocky cliffs, clashing into grumbling rocks with heated breaths. I wondered if I’d sink down into the bed, if the blankets would consume me, smother the wind within me, bury me under if I waited long enough.

There’s lying. And hiding. You lie to yourself and everyone you know. Lie to strangers on the Internet that it’ll get better. Paint those pretty smiles on plastic cheeks and get good marks because that’s all they really care about. Go through the motions, you’ve done this before. Make a good show, you’ve always loved theatrics. Tell them a lovely little story and brush it all off. Oh, what a great actress you are!

There’s un-remembering. Memory is the curse of the living. You shut out everything that happened and everything that’s happening. Shut out who you were and who you are. Blank out all the faces that haunt your memories and drown out all the voices you once knew until they’re just background noise. Let yourself sink into that dark void because it’s more bearable than anything that came before.

There’s failing. I sit in her seat but I can’t fill her shoes, every step I take, I’m bound to lose. I can’t help these people with the heavy eyes who just want something to do. All their kindness towards me is because of her. I was never the socialite, I’m horrible company, too. I can’t light up a room, that was always her. So don’t dare ask me to make that dish for Thanksgiving because I don’t know the recipe, she’s the one who always made it and I’m not her replacement.

 There’s forgetting. The ironic panic that fills your chest as you forage through your mind for lost treasures. Where did that pink cat knickknack that sat on the television mantle come from? It was from a vacation she went on, but was it Puerto Rico or Mexico? And what was in that stroganoff recipe, I know it had cream of mushroom soup, but did she include broth? She never measured anything, and I never wrote it down, and I tried to make it but it just wasn’t the same. And did we ever watch that movie together, what did she think? What did she say? What was the name of that friend she mentioned? There’s no one to ask…

There’s seeing. That newfound vision you can’t shake. Grief is like a pair of glasses you can’t take off; you see the world differently, even though nothing’s changed. The earth turns and seasons change but you’re stuck seeing everything for all its ugliness. Seeing all the ghosts that lurk in the darkness. And the newfound blindness that accompanies it. That darkness that invades your mind when you think of the fabled future. I used to have that picture—the one people have when they close their eyes and cast themselves into a far-off land and see themselves older, hopeful, wiser. When they imagine what’s to come and pour their hearts into making that beautiful dream a reality. I don’t have that anymore. I’m losing grip on it. I can’t see myself. Or her. It’s all gone.

There’s accepting. The surrender as you swallow this new reality. It’ll always be like this. I’ll always be like this. There’s no going back and no Before. Just this. I’m not the same person I used to be. I don’t really remember them anymore. They’re a stranger. A distant memory, like an illusory figure in a far-off dreamland. I’m resolved to this. To pain. To emptiness. To numbness. To nothingness. To moving on. To forgetting and starting over. I’m tethered to the sickly motion of time as it hurls me forward, stumbling into some great unknown. I don’t want the same things I used to. My dreams are smaller now and I think I can be okay with that. I have to be.

Sometime in the inescapable Now. There’s realizing. Those sorrowful faces you can’t help because you don’t even know where to start. But it’s okay because they look at you with that same sadness. Those voices that tell their stories and make you brave enough to tell yours. Those eyes that look at you not with pity, but with understanding. That recognition of mirrored loss and struggle and grief. And maybe you’re not the only one with newfound vision. There are those people that hear you and see you and sometimes that’s enough.

Gillian is currently pursuing a B.A. in Communications with a minor in English at Northeastern University. She enjoys creative writing and hopes to work in the television industry after college.

Read more from our Writing to Heal: College Student Stories series.

By Alisha Karuvannur-Sandhu

Summer is the loneliest season. I thought with age I could escape it, but there I was, alone in a hot not-home, and I was so afraid to fall again, down and down and down.

~

In grade school, summertime brought a big empty house with broken air conditioning. Strict working parents kept me inside, playdates sparse, and most of my time was spent in quietly overwhelming solitude. I ate hot sticky peaches and watched America’s Got Talent and fended off the heaviness that always showed up in slow moments. It felt never-ending, and when escapism failed me, I sat wondering if this was all life had to offer. I thought about God and the afterlife, and how dreadful it must be to go to heaven and have to experience pleasant nothing forever.

 The loneliness always ended in the fall, though. It was the one thing I could count on, school starting again, my sense of smallness dissipating. Companionship breathed life into my lungs, and I became myself again, studious and motivated and together (as together as a child can be). I left that peach-eating cocoon on the couch to rot; I emerged whole and new and ready for the world

~

When the pandemic hit, despite my best efforts to stay occupied, it wasn’t long before I became startlingly aware of how big the world was and how little I felt. The warmth of my bed called to me. The air was balmy, yet I wanted nothing more than to bury myself underneath the comforter and let the heaviness of gravity wash over me, weigh me down until I sunk into my mattress, through the bed, through the floor, down below the dirt beneath my house, down all the way to the center of the Earth.

Every night, I would click off my screen after a who-knows-how-long session of scrolling, left with a buzzing sensation in my head. As I sat alone in my bed, I felt a familiar crushing solitude creep into the room. Is it hot in here?

 Vague unease brewed deep inside my chest. Once they were unlocked, all these uncomfortable sensations seemed to follow me everywhere, sometimes lying dormant but always under the surface.

~

I woke up one morning unable to breathe. I checked the time on my phone. Just past 6am.

Inhale.

Exhale.

There was no use, it was too shallow. How could this happen? I had been so careful. My chest tightened and my heart fluttered. Heaviness reincarnated into something new. I started to feel lightheaded. Surely my blood oxygen levels must have been abysmal. I felt my pulse rapidly speed up.

Thump thump thump.

 My mind raced with questions. Do I go tell Mom? Do I go to the emergency room? What if I gave it to the family? What the fuck have I done?

 I had to get up and let her know. My father was gone already (he worked upstate and was only home some weekends), but I listened at her door and could hear her getting ready for work. I knocked quietly, then with more urgency. 

“Mom?” I called, my voice cracking.

After a few long seconds, she opened the door.

“Why are you up so early?”
            “I think I have COVID.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m short of breath.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I can’t breathe, Mom.”

My face contorted against my will. Fat round teardrops fell out of nowhere, and suddenly I was bawling into her shoulder like a baby, unable to stop. Shhhh, it’s okay. My face was caked in tears and snot. I gasped for air, but it was like breathing in a vacuum. You’re hyperventilating. You’re having a panic attack. I watched her hurry to the kitchen and return with a paper bag. She held it to my face as I heaved in and out.

A few days later, my test results came back negative.

As my summer continued its descent into malaise, I found refuge in the fact that I would be back in school soon, with classes to keep me busy, friends around me at all times, and bustling city air to cleanse away this steady taste of isolated suburbia. I spent most of the days lying in bed with the blinds shut—sunlight was too bright—scrolling through my phone or simply falling in and out of half-sleep. I reminded myself that fall would come again and revive me, as it always had before.

Rebirth was just in my grasp when the stories started coming out. All these kids going off to college only to be packing everything back up four days later. I joked about it with my friends, but the concern was real and growing. Then, one by one, they decided not to come back for the fall. Each housing cancellation was a light going out, until I had only one roommate left. A week before I was to fly back, I got a text from her. I’m sorry, Alisha. The last light fizzled into blackness. I looked out ahead at the dark apartment waiting for me.

I thought about staying in California, but I couldn’t do it. I had to get out. Change seemed my only hope of becoming myself again. I was going to make it work.~

The dark roots of something insidious were starting to take hold. Just a few days into the start of the fall semester, my senses began failing me. I sat in neurobiosomething listening to the professor speak sounds I couldn’t hear. I could feel the words go into my ears, I could feel my brain as it passively watched them float into my skull and spat them right back out, raw and jumbled and unprocessed. I narrowed my eyes at the slides on the projector screen, at the text that surely had to be English. I must have forgotten how to read, the way the letters amounted to gibberish.

Day after day, my comprehension diminished. Instead, I became acutely aware of the fluorescent lights humming in the classroom. My head buzzed in unison. Everything was too bright, always. Too hot, too. I shifted my weight back and forth in my chair, tugging at the collar of my shirt and stroking my sternum, my arms, my hair. Swallowing became manual; I compulsively gulped til I forgot how and would choke on my own dry throat. Day after day, the world became increasingly unintelligible. I was consumed by the thought that I was trapped in my seat with no escape. I feared my body would cease to function unless I kept it in check. Breathing was no longer autonomic; I had to shakily force air in and out of my lungs. I pressed two fingers to my neck to make sure I was still alive, that my heart hadn’t spontaneously decided to shut off. Dread shrouded my head like a fog, made me deaf and blind, day after day, day after day, I was falling, faster, harder, day after day. Eventually I stopped going to classes.

I took up shelter in that big empty apartment. Barely furnished, no air conditioning. I let oppressive heat overtake my body. A proverbial sinking feeling nudged me towards the couch, where I sat watching Zoom lectures, where I ate my paltry meals, where I slept less-than-soundly at night, where I could not fall, only sink, slow and steady. Although I felt barely alive, I found a strange assurance in my deadened state. Familiarity bred affection; I became so well acquainted with solitude that I developed a sense of dependency on it, the only stability in my life. I isolated myself from the world, scarcely communicating with friends or family, avoiding the news, embracing seclusion. Days blurred into each other, dishes piled up and up, the air outside grew frigid. I stayed glued to the cushions through it all, wrapping myself in blankets. Roots gripped me, enveloped my cocoon-bound body. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. Time after time I had broken free without exertion. Where was my renewal, my sacred rebirth? Now I lay there immobile—a carcass decomposing.

Images of my destruction, in endless variations, flashed through my brain like strobe lights. Flesh torn apart. Water rushing into my lungs. Carbon monoxide silently putting me to eternal sleep. Medleys of pills bubbling in my stomach, poison coursing through my veins and shutting down my organs. Jumping off a bridge and into the Charles—one final, irreversible fall.

Things got too bright and too hot and too loud and too much one night, and I concluded my only options were to get help or die. I thought of Mom. I wondered how long it would take for her to realize I was gone (she would surely be the first to realize). I wondered who would have to find my decaying remains, who would have to call her to relay my fate. I wondered what she would say at my funeral. I wondered if she would blame herself, if she would pick apart my life trying to find where she went wrong.

 I dialed her number with tears in my eyes.

~

With effort, heaviness, in all its incarnations, always proves fleeting.

Alisha is a third-year student at Northeastern University majoring in Philosophy, with a minor in Health, Humanities, and Society. She plans to pursue medical school after college and is particularly interested in healthcare ethics and narrative medicine.

Read more from our Writing to Heal: College Student Stories series.

I have a friend who works for an insurance company, just like her mom did for over 35 years. Surely, overhearing all those conference calls must have influenced her. One of my best friends is going to medical school. She will deny it in an attempt to see herself as independent, but it is because she wants to be like her parents, who are both doctors. My other friend is majoring in pre-law; it is no surprise that she grew up watching her father defend clients in courts. Children often follow the paths of their parents. There is an intangible level of influence and shaping that happens from the environments we are in.

My father sold cocaine out of the local town bar he owned while evading taxes for a living.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I grew up as a kind child who always spoke respectfully to adults and whose teachers saw me as responsible enough to deliver the attendance sheet to the office some mornings in elementary school. I was a good kid, who worked hard in school and played nicely with others. I am also a demon who was easily enraged, who wanted to solve problems with fists, who started drinking only a couple of years after reaching the benchmark of double-digit ages.

I grew up mainly in my mother’s house, who is, by all accounts, the average suburban middle-class mother. I spent some time at my dad’s house, and it shows. I am not sure where I stand on the nature versus nurture argument. Maybe my father’s genetics created this conflicted monster, or maybe it was my court-scheduled visitation that cultivated delinquent urges. I can’t say for sure where it comes from, but my incessant frustration as I suppress one of my identities is palpable.

When I was about nine years old, I was told that alcoholism is genetic-- I’m fucked.

What age does alcoholism start? Surely, a desire to deal drugs and hang around seedy bars must be genetic, too. When do I start carrying my weapon for protection?

I grew up asking myself when the bad side would set in. I thought about how disappointed my mother would be to see me follow my father’s path, instead of hers, despite her tireless efforts to protect me from his influence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was ready to branch out and meet new people after being tired of the same old judgmental faces in middle school. I was 13 and ready for something new, and I immediately found a group of upperclassmen that was uniquely fun. Each of them came with their own issues of problematic families, struggles to graduate school, or trauma from sexual assault. Regardless, I enjoyed their care-free spontaneity that let me experience their impulsive joy. One night, I came home around three in the morning with a bloody gash on my leg. I tried to hide it from my mom, but she saw the stained paper towels in the trash.

“Megan, what is wrong? Why are these paper towels covered in blood?” she asked with aggression and worry.

After stopping by to pick up the shrooms my friend Stef was buying, we decided to go TP a house. The cops pulled up, so I ran into the woods. I slipped on a muddy patch and my leg got cut. But it’s fine because the cops didn’t catch me.

“We were playing basketball yesterday and I got fouled and fell so I cut my knee,” I said, a little too quickly. I could not bear to see the mournful look on my mother’s face if she knew the types of activities I considered fun. I was not ready to host the funeral for the successful child she tried so hard to raise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My knee healed and I continued to act recklessly with friends during my first year or two of high school. After this, my older friends graduated high school. This left me more time to spend with other people, mostly my high school soccer teammates, who valued good grades, loyalty, and liked to watch movies on the weekends. In an attempt to fit in, I bought fuzzy flannel pajama pants to watch movies at their houses. I started to fall in love with the comfort of the cotton pants on Friday nights. I traded in the minty flavor of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey for Junior Mints, and the pungent smell of pot for a lavender diffuser.

Moving forward, teachers began to see me as a hardworking athlete and not a careless kid, wasting intelligence and athleticism. At times, this identity felt stable. Other times, I craved the exhilarating experiences of my early high school days.

Ultimately, I began to root my identity more deeply in wholesome behavior, rather than recklessness. This became a constant for me until graduating high school. It remains a piece of my identity, with only a few interruptions during moments of stress and change. These moments have become shorter and less frequent as I convince myself of my identity.

The last time I had the urge to drink heavily to tolerate the stressors of life was yesterday. The last time I drank heavily to tolerate the stressors of life was four years ago. My interest in becoming the shady character perched on the local bar stool with an oversized black backpack filled with various illegal substances has subsided. My need to solve problems with violence is usually nothing more than a fleeting thought.

I do not act the way I once did. I do not partake in the activities I once pictured myself destined to do. I am 23 years old. I earned a scholarship to play college soccer and I am graduating with a bachelor’s and master’s degree in criminal justice. With my degree, I will soon prevent crime, I will rehabilitate individuals from their poor choices, I will guide youths who feel their family has set them up for failure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My experiences are not unique. Every day there is a child struggling to suppress their conflicting identities. I’ve learned it is possible. While nature and nurture shape us, they leave us with options. No one is helpless in the path of their lives. Each day we must choose to be the person we want. We are so much more than a product of our genetics and environment. We have the agency to choose our own outcomes—destiny is a multiple-choice exam.

The author is a fifth-year student at Northeastern University soon to graduate with her Bachelor’s and Master’s degree. She was a varsity athlete at Northeastern and is looking to continue her engagement with athletics after graduation.

Read more from our Writing to Heal: College Student Stories series.

by Theresa Chung

Korean Romanization - English Translation

Halabeoji - Grandpa

Halmeoni - Grandma

Samchon - Uncle

Maknae-imo - Youngest Aunt

Kuhn-imo - Eldest Aunt

Umma - Mom

Appa - Dad

Unnie - Older Sister

Ban-chan - Side Dishes

As tradition, my family would fly from whichever New York airport that had the cheapest tickets to Fullerton, California every summer to spend time with my umma’s side of the family. It was never quiet with so many kids and adults in one house; everyday was eventful, whether we took collective naps on the cool floor or threw each other into the swimming pool.

 Summer 2016 - Fullerton, CA

The last time I went to Fullerton for a vacation, I was fifteen-years old, a rising junior in high school. I was also having the worst experience with puberty, which had turned me into a terrible teenager. Every conversation with my parents ended with me annoyed at them for “never understanding me.” Umma still recalls how I always slammed my bedroom door.

 On the last day before umma and I had to return home, I had to complete summer AP U.S. History homework that I had pushed off. I only realized I had spent the whole day writing when umma and halmeoni started to prepare dinner in the kitchen. I asked umma what we were eating. She said leftover ban-chan and rice.

 I whined that I didn’t want to eat more rice and leftovers. I wanted something good, like fried chicken or grilled meat.

 Umma told me to just eat what’s given. We weren’t going to make food since there were only five people at home. I now suspect it was also because umma didn’t want halmeoni to feel obligated to make anything, especially since the chemo was taking away the energy that had once let her spend days making me mujigae-ddeok, my favorite rice cake, which requires sitting in front of a fire in 80-degree weather to make. I didn’t think to consider halmeoni’s health, putting my desires before her.

 I ignored umma’s words and scavenged for food. I walked over to the wooden pantry. Success. A box of Kraft Mac and Cheese. I grabbed it and told umma this was my dinner. She gave up and told me to do whatever I wanted.

 Umma set out a few plates of ban-chan on the table, which was strange because in past years, halmeoni would cook enough to cover the entire table. I re-read the directions on the box as I cooked the mac and cheese.

 Dinner felt gloomy. As the last meal I would eat with halmeoni, the mac and cheese wasn't good. I regretted eating it instead of halmeoni’s ban-chan, but being a teenager, I wouldn’t allow myself to show umma I made a mistake.

 The last night of the last vacation in Fullerton was uncomfortably quiet. The house had always felt empty once samchon decided to move his family away and maknae-imo didn’t sleep over as often. There were no giggles from cousins who couldn’t sleep, or songs sung by my halabeoji.

 The next morning, I found myself holding back tears as we packed for the airport.

 Halmeoni woke up early to make sure we had packed everything. As we put our shoes on, she shoved a package of coffee milk boxes into umma’s purse, reprimanding us for forgetting it. We had bought it at the supermarket days before, halmeoni taking notice of how much I liked it.

I gave my halmeoni a last hug, feeling how she was still soft to hold. That was the last time that I touched halmeoni, as I couldn’t bring myself to touch her while she laid in her casket.

 Like every summer before, halmeoni stood outside and waved as the car pulled out, my eyes wet with tears that I was too ashamed to let out.

At the airport, umma and I poked straws into the six cartons of the coffee milk while in line for the security check. We knew there was no way we were going to throw away the milk and so we chugged it before we made it to the scanner.

May 2017 - Albany Airport, NY

Umma decided to miss work for four days to fly to Fullerton. Halmeoni was no longer on chemotherapy and was forgetting who her children were at times.

Appa and I picked umma up from the airport the day I took the APUSH exam.

Only three days later I received a late-night phone call from my cousin, who I have heard cry just once in my life.

The three of us returned to the airport at dawn on the 9th, only this time we were all flying to Fullerton. It was the first time we had ever purchased such expensive tickets and paid for the overpriced airport parking fee.

 Spring 2017-2021 - Experiencing Guilt

Every day since May 8th…

I have asked myself why I chose to eat the mac and cheese that night. I ask myself when I crave mac and cheese. I ask myself when I see store-made mujigae-ddeok. I ask myself when I ask umma to make my favorite summer food of oi-ji, pickled cucumbers and she responds with how halmeoni was the only one who could make it how I liked it, and then we fall silent.

 I have hated my fifteen-year-old self for putting her stupid pride and teenage angst before everyone else. Because of her, I lost my chance to eat halmeoni’s food one last time. I don’t remember the last thing I ate that halmeoni made. I only remember that I ate the dreadful mac and cheese.

 I have felt useless. For years, I never knew what type it was nor did I ever ask. Umma told me that it was simply cancer. That’s all I was to know.  

For years, I’ve asked myself, why did umma never tell me what it was? I never knew what was happening, what symptoms were present, that halmeoni was tired… Umma and her siblings talked to each other about the appointments in Korean, words that I was unfamiliar with even in English and thus words that I could never understand. Leaving me to ask these questions to myself, umma decided to depend heavily on unnie the whole time.

 Unnie was older, smarter, and preparing for medical school, so she was more familiar with the terminology. She helped translate during halmeoni’s appointments even though she was busy studying for the MCAT. I knew nothing about the human body or cancer. I avoided phone calls, self-conscious about my Korean and fearful of embarrassing myself. I didn’t do anything to help halmeoni.

 Fall 2018 – Interstate 90, MA

While driving home from college in Boston, I finally mustered up the courage to ask appa what the diagnosis was. Liver cancer and… Throughout the conversation, I also realized why I was never included in conversations about halmeoni. It wasn’t just the cancer, it never is. My umma’s side of the family dealt with many struggles that come with being immigrants and being human. Life was never easy for them, but that was nothing they wanted to make obvious to the children. This is typical within Korean families as we Koreans are very prideful people. The adults in my family have endeavored to allow their children to enjoy blissful, naive childhoods, and to some extent, I feel gratitude towards their efforts.

 2019-2021 - Processing Grief

My anger towards umma for not telling me everything about halmeoni has long dissipated Even when halmeoni was dying, I focused on myself. I hadn’t thought about how my umma had to hear her own umma had died just days after she had left to go back home to work. That my umma had to spend years living so far away from her umma while her siblings were always there with her. That my umma had to deal with her daughter being so cruel at a time when she needed support. Only years later have I realized how selfish I was.

 Since May 8th, 2017, I have come to college in hopes of becoming a doctor. Sometimes as I do homework that mentions metastasis, I wonder if it would’ve been better if halmeoni had lived longer. But would I have felt better after taking heavy science lectures? After reading research papers full of jargon? Would I truly have thought I was doing something to help, or would I have continued to feel useless in this uncontrollable, solution-less situation?

 I don’t know, but I do know that I must forgive my younger self for choosing to eat the mac and cheese that night. As much as I resent her for her decisions, my younger self is still me. She deserves to be forgiven.

As a fifteen-year-old, I knew nothing about death, so I didn’t know how to process my grief. But on this never-ending path to forgiveness, I have learned that there is no proper way to experience grief. I realized it years after halmeoni left before I could show her a better version of myself. And I realized it weeks after kuhn-imo had ended her own fight with cancer and decided to leave us for halmeoni.

August 2021 - Growing Up

I didn’t realize it until a few weeks after kuhn-imo passed, but I didn’t hate myself as severely when she died, despite feeling the same frustration towards oncologists and money, or lack thereof. I questioned if it was because I unconsciously liked halmeoni more and if I was a bad person, but it wasn’t that. Guilt hadn’t shrouded the grief I felt for her passing. I mourned kuhn-imo without being overwhelmed with selfish thoughts. I was able to send her off in a more peaceful manner. Of course, I regret being unable to mourn for halmeoni in a better way, but I believe she would feel proud, knowing that I am trying to make peace with myself.

Theresa is a fourth-year student attending Northeastern University in Boston, MA. She is pursuing a major in the Health Sciences as well as a minor in English Writing. She hopes to attend medical school and also to continue to write both nonfiction and fiction.

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By Ashley Lynch

My New Hampshire Colonial-style house sat at the edge of a cul-de-sac, and this is the house we still live in today. Despite regular renovations and repairs, I sometimes feel the house has aged more than I have in tangible years, and attempts to fix the house have resulted in an altered-kind-of Botox look after a few too many surgeries—different from the original, fixed but in an unfamiliar way. When I was younger, the cul-de-sac seemed expansive, and to leave the end of my street was not something I pondered without the presence of my family.

When I was young, my mom was my only caretaker and main source of comfort, to the point where even being close to her could serve as a security blanket. As a shy kid, I would sometimes attempt to escape meeting new people or interacting with strangers by hiding near my mom's feet, covering myself with the bottom of her summer dress as a makeshift disguise. Her wardrobe rotated through a few calf-length, heavily-worn dresses, some I recognized as purchases from Walmart and others I knew to be gifts from the maternity section from my aunt. My mom struggled with holding weight around her midsection, and I remember her initial offense and later realization that these clothes helped to shape her form a bit more nicely.

As a toddler, I can recall I would only venture to leave the house on my own if I could not immediately find my mom. One hazy, humid summer morning, my twin and I heaved open the front door because we did not see mom and were met with the feeling of insecurity, of momentary anxious abandonment. It was early enough that clouds still covered the promise of sunlight. My bare feet were instantly chilled by the cool nighttime still clutched by our stone front steps. I leaped to the neighboring grass for temperature relief and decided I preferred the slightly more pleasant feeling of sticky, damp grass; the layer of dew provided the grass with increased shear force for the blades to get stuck between my stubby toes.

Mom was talking with an unfamiliar technician, and Sarah and I were relieved to have found her. “Uppie,” Sarah repeated our familial, conditioned word in asking to be picked up, to be comforted after a few moments of lostness without Mom’s presence. Our gray house was the most familiar physical place I knew, but this familiarity lost its relief when our emotional source of comfort was not there, making us cinnamon toast or joining us to watch cartoons. Sarah outstretched her arms; even though Sarah was asking for this affection, mom’s physical comfort was not a question, and she was swept up before I could fully raise my arms as well.

“Uppie,” I repeated in turn. I was the second twin to be delivered and sometimes still following in Sarah’s footsteps. “No,” my mom looked down for a moment, still in conversation with the stranger, “I can’t pick you both up anymore. You’re too heavy. Sarah needs this more.”

Sarah’s autism diagnosis was recent, and one that I would not fully understand for many years to come. As a toddler, it was implanted in my brain as a lesson, as essential as the alphabet and number line, that Sarah faced extra difficulties and needed more attention and support. By the age of four, mom told me I was old enough to get dressed on my own, but I still found it hard to differentiate the neck and arm holes or feel confident in deciding which clothes matched. We are twins, and eighteen years later Sarah receives help getting dressed to this day.

Growing up with Sarah requiring an institutionalized level of care for years, I was frozen in this yearning, young pose, with my arms still reaching up. I found myself reasserting my need for attention as we grew up. Sarah required more care on all levels, and simple communication with my mom could seem unfathomable. My arms attempted to stretch a distance of a thousand miles, and this distance grew even when my mom and I existed in the same home.

In our kitchen, there used to be a bar-top counter attached to the longest wall, with two wooden chairs placed beneath the pale counter, one stool uneven and rickety in its balance. Covering this wall was a large mirror that made the kitchen seem larger than it actually was; some of the repairmen who entered into the house would express their initial confusion, thinking the mirror represented the other half of the room or an open table instead of a sheltered countertop. My mom spent the majority of her time home typing at this space. Although this mirror is no longer in the kitchen, I can still envision my mom’s reflection here: her slightly-bent posture, how the wrinkles on her forehead and typing hands were less noticeable in this image than face-to-face, and her utter concentration on the screen. When I would attempt to speak to her while she was here, she would look back at me through the mirror, or answer without shifting her gaze from the laptop. Over time, I longed for eye contact that didn’t take place through a reflection.

I know now that this stretching of distance between us was unpreventable, and due to Sarah’s circumstances, my mom was truly not available. I am not sure whether she was aware of this.

 After her initial diagnosis, Sarah was assigned to work full time with an in-house behavioral management specialist, who operated with support from a larger behavior management team. Despite the continued efforts of this support system, over the years two of our car windshields were shattered, one storm door was destroyed, and more holes than I can recall appeared on the wall from the force of Sarah’s fist or head. Sometimes the holes would be patched up in a timely manner, but other marks of chaos lingered, and I struggled to shuffle visiting friends past these damages. I found myself arranging cafe coffee dates or simply agreeing to hang-outs I did not have to host. Growing up, the physical shape of my house felt like a part of my identity, like the clothes I chose to wear or food I selected to eat.

Now that I am in college, I am not home often, but one week in the summer when I stayed in New Hampshire, I woke to screaming downstairs. In the past few months, Sarah had been experiencing psychosis, a personality shift, and tested highly positive for Lyme disease. The latter can result in neurological damage. In the process of trying out various antipsychotic medications, Sarah experienced hallucinations as a side effect. Mom had gone out for a quick trip to the grocery store, and when I found Sarah, I discovered she believed that a truck had crashed into our living room. Since moving out, I sometimes find it startling how out of touch I have become to Sarah’s ongoing daily needs that mom provides.

College has also given me space to reflect on my upbringing, and when I return home, I can better understand the choices my mom made as a parent as well as the tension she carried and her constant closed-off nature.

 During that most recent trip home, I saw a large hole in the wall of the upstairs hallway, which I had learned via text a few weeks before occurred during a challenging time with Sarah’s hallucinations. Viewing the picture of the wall via text, I was initially upset that the hole appeared next to my bedroom door. Seeing the contortion of the wall in person, my heart sank, as I was able to fully make the connection that Sarah’s emotional distress, confusion, and images originating from her mind caused her to hit her head against the wall in frustration.

I no longer associate the physical structure I grew up with as strongly with my identity. It is still a large part of me and my early memories, but the broken facets of this location serve as indicators of endurance rather than of irreparable damage. I know that this hole in the wall has still not been plastered, but I have come to accept both the dynamics of my family and to recognize some things are not an easy fix.

Ashley is a junior at Northeastern University studying bioengineering with a concentration in cell and tissue engineering, and a minor in writing. In her free time, she is a member of Biomedical Engineering Society and enjoys yoga and watching cooking shows.

Read more Writing to Heal: College Student Stories.