Most days, I’m afraid for you. Some days, I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid you’ll turn into that person who is so familiar, but a stranger all the same. That you will leave holes in the walls with your punches again, or worse, that you will physically hurt yourself. I was too young to understand what you meant the first time you said you heard voices, voices telling you not to trust anyone, to operate in paranoia and anxiety. You were six years old and I was ten – we lived in a tiny apartment and mental illness? This doesn’t happen to people like us.

But now, fifteen years later, I know that this can and does happen to people just like us – poor, Black, and just trying to make it through another day – and all too often, we don’t admit that the unstable behaviors, the paranoia, the anger, the frustration, all stem from a deeper and more insidious root problem.

The incessant rambling, the conspiracy theories, the times you apply to jobs but cannot quell your anxiety, your nervousness, enough to walk into the interview room. But somehow, these occurrences all take a backseat to who I know you really are.

There are times when I see glimpses of your true self and I feel comforted in this. My fears and all of my senses become numb, and flashbacks of what once was are erased and forgotten. I saw you so clearly the day I drove home from college. It was a hot summer’s day, and we had lunch together, just me and my little brother. We rode in your Dodge Intrepid and listened to Kanye play through your speakers. You felt so whole to me. I saw you through a rose-colored lens and for once, I felt as if we were normal. Like our family was normal. The person yelling obscenities at our mother and cursing our father didn’t exist. And that memory has fed my hunger for normalcy for years – I’ve shrouded myself in that memory and slept in it, warm in its embrace. That memory convinces me that someday, everything will be okay.

But mental illness does not back down. Mental illness is a relentless predator that will steal your confidence and your joy, your hopes and dreams. And it doesn’t stop there. Mental illness is the reason why I blink back tears on the way to the company party, because I know that your most recent outburst means your sickness is back to claim its territory. Mental illness, in its bellowing and demanding voice, tells you to remain comfortable while riding out your manic highs and depressive lows, unmedicated and unwilling to comply with what your family feels is best for you. Mental illness is why I go back to my suburban townhome and feel strong pangs of guilt, because I can’t save you.

Maybe I should’ve spent more time with you. While I was away at college, you were struggling to understand yourself and your emotions. Maybe it was then that I should’ve told you I loved you more. Maybe, just maybe, that would’ve been enough to counteract those times your mind tells you you’re alone.

I don’t know what I could’ve done differently, but I know I’d give the world just to see you happy, like you were that summer day.

Mental illness….is the reason why I feel my love will never be enough.

Angel Banks
Pitched Entry

Image Source: “Explosione Di Fantasia”, 1993 / Model : Gail O’Neill