A personal essay,
Solace.
About my relationship with learning.
Solace.
Written in 2019.
My mother is a hoarder. Raised in a house-turned-obstacle course, I navigated around the trash that defined me for sixteen years.
I have always known that my family, and home, are different from most others, but that is not the essence of my story. The defining aspects of my identity are not that I have a “sick” mom, or that my trash-filled home is at the center of high-school gossip and judging eyes. A mentally ill mother is not imperative to who I am because of the“tragedy” or “ghastliness” that some choose to associate with my upbringing; it is imperative to who I am because it shaped me in ways that nothing else could. I may not have a stable family life, but I do have a unique perspective on what it means to grow up independently and find solace in knowledge.
As a child, I was incredibly shy. I avoided other kids, as I found making friends to be difficult when they would soon discover I lived in a mysterious house that they would never be invited to. Instead, I became enamored with reading and teaching imaginary classes for fun. I looked forward to going to school, as time spent away from home was time spent happy. My three brothers constantly tried to keep me busy, and because my mom could not be the reliable support that I needed, they were instead. But by middle school, all three of my siblings had entered college. I soon spent my time alone in my room, as a barrier of trash isolated me from my parents and the rest of the world. While I had always enjoyed school, feeling completely alone in my own home ultimately drove me to my passion: learning. I quickly realized that going down rabbit holes of information on the internet and reading books from a multitude of genres was what truly made me happy. As I transported myself from snowy Kansas plains to exotic 9¾ platforms and Apollo space capsules, a curiosity was ignited within me. Although I was only doing rudimentary math problems and occasionally writing a book report for school, knowledge became central to my sense of self. It was my panacea.
My family knows what it’s like to be afraid: of failure, of my mom’s health, of judgment. When I was eight, my older brother told me that I could be taken away by Child Protective Services. I don’t remember much except for a few key words: “unsafe,” “don’t tell,” “don’t answer the door,” “I’m sorry.” This night was not a turning point, but a foreshadowing of the fear that would plague me as long as I lived at home. I worked harder than ever before to do well in school, as I knew it was my only means of escape.
For years, I had wished for a clean house as I blew out my birthday candles. But on my sixteenth birthday, I wished for the courage to find one on my own. That year, I left of my own accord, inspired by the bravery that my brothers displayed by leaving and never looking back. It was the hardest decision I have ever had to make. Living with another family, I still strive to do well, but now, on my own terms.
I wish mental illness didn’t hold the stigma that it does. I wish people saw my mother as someone trying, and failing, to get better. I am not a charity case or an example for others because my mom is sick. But I am who I am because of her suffering. I have learned how to be independent, and how to work hard in order to take care of myself. I’m not just the girl with a sick mom. I’m the girl who is a better person because of her sick mom.