I was always the quiet one in class, no one really knew me and I didn't know anyone either. I was the girl that always had my nose hidden in a book, usually Harry Potter, and I wasn't ashamed of it. For the longest time I thought this was because I just liked to read. As I got older, I realized that it wasn't so much that I like to read, and more that I read because it's my escape. Reading is my coping mechanism when things get tough or overwhelming. I did most of my reading in middle school and high school. The reason for this? That span of seven years were the ones in my life when my mother's mental illness was a dark cloud looming over my life. I was finally old enough to be aware of it, but not yet old enough to escape it.

My mom had a severe case of bipolar disorder. She also suffered from severe anxiety and had schizophrenic tendencies. To say that being one of the people that had to play the role of her babysitter was a nightmare would be an understatement. Her life affected mine in every way imaginable. To start off, I never truly learned how to make friends. Though I was unaware of it at that time, when I was at the fragile age where we start making friends, I was unable to figure out how to make them on my own. My mom was too sick to spend time with me to explain it, and my dad was too busy taking care of my mom. I was left to my own imagination, and on my own physically as well, because I was an only child.

Because I was supposed to take care of my mom when she was in a depressed state, I felt that I could never live my own life. My life revolved around her and making sure that she wouldn't be successful in taking her own life. Because suicidal tendencies were a part of her depression, I felt that I was responsible for keeping her alive when my dad wasn't home. This inhibited me from spending time with people my own age and going to school dances and parties. I was used to the feeling of being forced to stay home to take care of my mother, that I stopped bothering to ask if I could go out with the few friends that I had.

Worrying about my mom was a constant struggle for me. I never knew if I would be going home to find that she had been successful in a suicide attempt. The most terrifying thing was knowing that she would be alone in the house where she could so easily hurt herself if she wanted to. When she did attempt suicide, I had to endure the fear of losing a parent. I would feel both scared and numb when this would happen. I didn't know how to feel because it had become such a normal thing to me, but at the same time, the idea of losing my mother in the blink of an eye was devastating. So when these things would happen, I pulled out a book and started reading. I found my escape in the worlds that different authors created. It was my one piece of relief from the nightmare that was my life.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mom, and when she did pass away four years ago, my world came crashing to a halt. But life with a parent that has a mental illness is hard. It takes everything out of you and until you can leave, it controls your life. The only good part about it is that when you care for that parent every day, you create a special bond with that parent. They trust you, they love you, you love them, and nothing can destroy that love that comes from spending so much time with that parent. Life with my mom was a struggle, but I couldn't possibly love her any more. She was the strongest person I know, and living with her and caring for her made me the strongest person I could possibly be. For that I am grateful.