Storytelling is one of the few gifts I have, one of the things that comes entirely naturally to me. There are also a lot of things in my life that I refuse to talk about, or had trouble addressing. Things I was ashamed of, things that just hurt too much.

Posting this isn't an obligation, not to me or to you. You are not required to feel any particular way after reading this. You are not required to tell me anything- not how sorry you are, or how I should get over myself. If it makes you uncomfortable feel free to look away. And there is a chance it will make you uncomfortable. I'll be mentioning things like drug use/abuse, emotional abuse, bullying, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, actual suicide attempts, and probably a few things I’m forgetting. If something’s likely to set you off then tread carefully. Your emotional health trumps all else.

It’s time to tell my story, for my own sake. No hiding, no lies, no shame. This is who I am.

The first words are hard. My story doesn’t begin with me- it starts before I was born. Before I was conceived, even. My mother’s parents had two children- my aunt, who’s a paranoid schizophrenic, and my mom who’s bipolar. Mental illness runs in the family and they had a hard time raising both girls.

My dad was an 80’s goth-punk. My mom’s parents (henceforth referred to as ‘Nana’ and ‘Papa’) hated him. They weren’t too straight-laced, but something about my dad offended them. Honestly, something about my dad offends a lot of people.

When mom found out she was pregnant she kind of freaked out. She and my dad weren’t married, both were working minimum-wage jobs, and neither had their own place. Mom was scared but wanted to keep me, and managed to despite Nana and Papa’s insistences otherwise. I was a hard birth- an ‘extreme ( )each’- that is, I was folded in half and tried to come out backside-first. I’d also managed to get my umbilical cord tying my ankles around my neck- mom and I both almost died. It set something of a precedent for my life.

Nana was very upset that they let my dad in while mom was giving birth but not her. She kept complaining that they wouldn’t let her see “our” baby… as in hers and Papa’s.

This also set something of a precedent.

Mom was completely blitzed on painkillers; she’d just had an emergency C-section after all, so Nana took care of the paperwork. Not only did she spell my name wrong but she also put her last name on it instead of my dad’s.

Mom freaked out when she found out, and my dad’s mom (‘grandma’ from here on) had to help her get it changed. Meanwhile Nana and Papa were ‘looking after me’ and threatening to leave the state if mom and dad didn’t get married… so they did. Then Nana tried to convince her that the marriage wasn’t valid, which mom believed until grandma corrected her (the ‘expiration date’ on the marriage license was for if you didn’t actually get married before that date, for those wondering).

Eventually Nana and Papa did leave the state, though they ‘invited’ my mom and dad with them. Gradually they began to push my parents out of their (and my) life. They lived in a small town in Arkansas. Anyone who has lived in a small town is probably familiar with small town politics. Nana and Papa were considered influential people. They used their influence against my parents, eventually forcing them to move back to California. Without me.

This was essentially a very roundabout means of kidnapping. Nana started raising me as her own. She didn’t tell me about my mom. She taught me to call her Mama.

My mom was distraught, and once again grandma saved the day. She got the paperwork together proving that I was my mother’s daughter. She had mom call Nana begging just to see me, please, one last time, on neutral ground- a town outside of Nana’s influence. Plans were made to fly out first thing in the morning the very next day after the meeting.

The plan worked, if barely. Nana ( )ought me to a friend’s house. Mom showed up late in the night, and as soon as she had me in her arms she left and headed for the car.

Nana pulled a gun.

I don’t know how it would have ended if one of the neighbors hadn’t seen the gun and called the cops.

When the officer arrived Nana claimed mom was kidnapping me and tried to have her arrested, but not only was my resemblance to my mother stronger than mine to Nana, but mom had paperwork to back it. (I’m told she didn’t even need to show him- he said he could tell just looking at us that we really were mother and child.) Mom refused to press charges- that would mean she’d have to stay in Arkansas and Nana could weasel her way back into having me- but the officer agreed to hold her for the full 24 hours, stalling her while mom fled back to California.

When I was little I used to dream about that night. I was two or three years old- old enough that permanent memories could form. It’s blurrier now, but I still remember details. (The row houses Nana’s friend was living in, the oppressive dark of night lit by quaint old-fashioned street lights. Nana at the landing, lit from behind, tiny little purse-gun in her hand, mom rushing to the far side of the car to get me buckled in but also using it as a shield, solid metal between her and Nana. Fear and confusion.)

Things got better. My parents had a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah who was willing to let us stay in his apartment. Both my parents had jobs. They were friends with a woman who lived in the same building, and “grandma” Cathy was an itty bitty 50-60-year-old trucker lady who took my mom under her take-no-shit wing. I have a few small memories of this time, most happy- the neighbor girl painting my nails, Cathy giving me coffee (since I have ADHD it calms me down instead of making me hyper), mom on her smoke break below the apartment's balcony, having walked the block and a half so I could see her for a minute. I also remember the paper-thin walls and the noisy neighbors, though I don't think this counts as a happy memory, heh. Anyway eventually they decided to move in with my grandma (dad's mom, not Cathy) back in California. The house had an enclosed patio (basically a normal room with windows on two walls and a glass wall with sliding door on the third; we call it the “fishbowl” because it's like being in one) that my parents moved into and I shared a room with my cousin, who was only half a year older than me. That cousin was a brittle type 1 diabetic, as they had recently discovered, and in the same house was my ancient great-grandma who was already suffering from nighttime dementia (Sundowner's) and was bed-bound.

My dad's agoraphobic, which means that not only does going outside make him very anxious but also being around a lot of people, especially unfamiliar ones. He had a hard time with his classmates and was constantly under attack, until he developed trust issues and hypervigilance. Living with just my mom and their roommate wasn't a problem, but the people coming and going for my cousin and great-grandma was hard on him. Dad's anxiety had gotten bad enough he couldn't work anymore and mom was still working minimum wage just-under-full-time-because-we-don't-want-to-give-you-benefits jobs, so they couldn't afford a place for three but dad needed to move out soon for his health.

My great-aunt (great-grandma's sister) saved the day. Here is a woman who, now especially, is close to my heart. Even at the time she was old, in her 80's. She had lived through two world wars and the Great Depression, it had made her strong but kind, and she offered my parents a place on her property. She had two old trailers there, one that was used as storage and one we moved into rent-free. All she asked was that, when we could, my parents put money toward utilities. If she hadn't made the offer it was likely my parents would have left me with my grandma and taken to the streets.

A thing about my parents: Both of them used drugs. I don't think dad was ever actually addicted, as he was always able to stop very easily, but my mom definitely was. As I mentioned, my dad had his mental health issues and was fond of psychotropics and hallucinogenics as a way of “meeting his demons” (“you never see anything when you're high that's not already in your head,” he told me once). My mom is bipolar/manic-depressive and was self-medicating with meth to counter her lows. She was the one with addiction problems, she's fought for years to quit both the hard drugs and smoking. Often when she managed to put down one for a while a new addiction would pop up- when she finally managed to stop using meth she took to alcohol instead.

(That's enough for now, I think. I've had to fix way too many errors so it's time for bed.)