A Reflection on Mothers, Children, and Mental Illness


I woke up this morning and there it was again, I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother. This essay is all over the internet, written by a woman who is using her personal story about experiences with her “mentally ill” son, whom she is “terrified of,” to appeal for more dialogue on the issue of mental health. As I write this, her son’s picture has been viewed by over a million people. They have read her accounts of what may be some of these young man’s most painful childhood memories.

Fortunately, Michael’s mother updated her blog with this statement, responding to another blogger that voiced concerns about children’s privacy rights:

“We would like to release a public statement on the need for a respectful national conversation on mental health. Whatever our prior disagreements, we both believe that the stigma attached to mental illness needs to end. We need to provide affordable, quality mental health care for families. We need to provide support for families who have a relative who is struggling.

We both agree that privacy for family members, especially children, is important. Neither of us anticipated the viral response to our posts. We love our children and hope you will respect their privacy.

Our nation has suffered enough in the aftermath of Newtown. We are not interested in being part of a ‘mommy war’. We are interested in opening a serious conversation on what can be done for families in need. Let’s work together and make our country better.

“Thanks, all!”

Liza Long was successful in raising awareness and in creating dialogue. Her essay went viral with surprising aplomb. It was pulled from her small blog, republished on a regional academic website, and then picked up by both The Huffington Post and AlterNet. At last check, it had been shared almost 400,000 times.

On twitter and Facebook, people are exchanging links to articles and bits of personal stories, opinions about whether or not it is abusive to share your child’s story in such a way.  People are discussing the culture of violence and gun control, Asperger’s and medications.

People have not, unfortunately, been so quick to realize that forced treatment is itself violent. The posts acknowledging the role of psychiatric drugs, largely SSRIs and stimulants, in aberrant violence are woefully few and far between.

I think that young man, Michael, has every right to be angry and hurt and confused.

I don’t know when being angry and hurt and confused became a mental illness.

As an adult survivor of early psychiatric treatment, a recovery educator, and as a parent, I am deeply concerned that we live in a world that is so punishing of difference that parents are pressured to hurt their children, taught to view them through diminished perspectives and to hear their cries for help and efforts to voice distress as symptoms, manipulations, and fits.

It is concerning to me that the relationship between a mother and a child can be so damaged that the child is harmed by the mother and the mother is afraid of her child. I actually have a lot of respect for Liza Long, because she was honest about how she felt and about how she perceived her son’s behaviors and attitudes.

Fear, sadly, is one of the common effects of mental illness.

This term “mental illness” was introduced in the age-old tradition of establishing formal pathologies for things which fall outside of the statistical norm or which appear to function in a way that is deemed useless or undesirable. While the technologies of medical “study” and “intervention” may have become a bit more “sophisticated.” The basic premise is the same: individual human struggle is due to a flaw in the individual human structure.

At age 12, I sat in a room with my mother, in an office that I didn’t want to be in, and listened to her discuss with a doctor what might be “wrong” with me.  She was concerned and she had every right to be. In fact, she had a responsibility to be and, as a mother, she had an instinct to be. I was her child and I was struggling. I was angry, violent, suicidal, sullen, and rude.

Do you have any idea what a 12 year old girl’s fist can do to a door? Quite a bit of damage, as it turned out. There have been times that my mother was scared of me.

At that appointment, my mother found out that my IQ, like Liza Long’s son, was “off the charts.”  She listened to the numbers and she nodded, smiling at me. “Well, we’ve always known she was smart.” I don’t know if my parents told those first doctors about the speech classes the school sent me to when I was younger, about my social awkwardness, my sickness when it was time to leave the house in the morning, to ride into town, to go to school.

I don’t know if they told those doctors that I had just watched our family land be cleared and developed or that I was terrified of my math teacher or that, the year before, I had gone to Catholic school for a year, where an 8th grader had kissed me on the bus.

The next year, following a defiant underage late-night driving escapade in a slightly older girl’s mother’s car, I was sent to my first stay at a residential treatment facility.  It was there that I was first told that I had a “mental illness” and that there were pills that I would need to take every day, even after I was able to return home.

When I did return and I had to go back to school, everyone knew where I had been. I was, from then on, “a kid who had problems.”

I will never claim to be a person who didn’t actually have significant difficulty in my experience of living. I definitely struggled for many years. I have scars and records, memories sharp and foggy of things that, in retrospect, I am lucky to have survived. I did though, and I have recovered from my diagnosis of a severe and persistent mental illness. This does not mean that I have learned to “live with my illness” or to “manage it.”

This means I have recovered from the idea that the way I experience the world is an illness.

None of this is to say that people do not have difficult times. Some people experience the world in ways that can be very challenging and, at times, extreme for them. This is not to say, even, that some people’s brains don’t work differently than others. In fact, no two people experience the world in the same way.

However, the construct of “mental illness” tells us that some of these differences are more concerning than others. By and large, the dangers of mental illness are closely related to being treated as if one is mentally ill, from self-destroying social and emotional abuses, to the hopelessness of believing that one has an intrinsic flaw in one’s brain that will never allow them to stray too far from being sick and caught in struggle. Further, the “treatment” of “mental illness” itself is damaging, as evidenced by the many deaths and disabilities caused by forced and coercive interventions and chemical toxicity.

My family spent many thousands of dollars trying to help me and, as it turned out, the help hurt me more.  Further, the idea that I had something out-of-whack in my brain drove an invisible wedge between me and the rest of my family, who spoke in measured tones and who would glance at me furtively, wondering if I was about to explode.

The years I was on SSRI’s, drugs that are known to cause violent and extreme mood states, I was explosive. I slammed things. I screamed. I hit myself in the face and put my head into a wall so hard I saw stars. I did not want to do those things. I was as if a switch got flipped and all the feeling I had ever felt…all the rage and grief and fear…it all came out at once and I’d always end up crying, wanting to go home, even if I was home.

It wasn’t until 20 years later that I learned that the way I process information affects how I feel and that not everybody’s brain works like mine. Nobody’s brain works the same way.  Nobody feels the same way about things. We are all in our own little worlds, together alone.

For some, the world is a loud and clumsy place, full of laughter that isn’t understood and a deep observant sadness. For others, clothes hurt and school is a nightmare. The lights buzz. The cafeteria stinks. The kids are mean and the teachers are uninspiring. For some, it is all very confusing and hard to keep up with. The frustration alone brings tears and anger.

No parent wants to see their child struggle. I am the mother of children sometimes remind me a bit of myself as a kid, kids who are bright and sensitive, who feel things deeply and who sometimes aren’t easy to comfort when they have simply had enough. I understand how it feels to not know what to do, to see that your child is struggling and to find that efforts to “make it better” seem to cause more upset.

I have made appointments and I have filled out long questionnaires and have watched for signs of this and for signs of that. I have stuffed a crying child into the car seat and I have sat in the waiting room. I have tried to be the calm, perfect mother as I watched the blood be drawn, ruling out any and all diseases and syndromes for which there are actual tests. I have sat across the desk, like my own mother did, and listened to the doctor tell me all about a child who she had met approximately eight minutes prior.

It wasn’t radical holistic righteousness that turned our family sharply away from pediatric behavioral interventions, it was a quote, found in the book Not Even Wrong, by Paul Collins, in which he writes about his experience as the father of a child with autism. I was reading everything I could get my hands on and some of what I read was terrifying and some was hopeful. This helped the most:

“…the ultimate square pegs, and the problem with pounding a square peg into a round hole is not that the hammering is hard work. It’s that you’re destroying the peg.”

There aren’t easy answers. It is not as if the parents of neurodivergent kids can structure the perfect educational environment and can create safe social spaces that respect autonomy and diversity of communication, interests, and experience. Can they? In most cases, no. The demands of modern culture and economy depend on monolithic public schooling, often in environments that are assaulting to the senses and damaging to self-esteem.

Can families find skilled and conscientious supporters to help empower their children to be confident in the worth of their differences and to find self-determined ways to navigate challenges?

Can parents become, themselves, skilled and conscientious supporters of their children?

Can parents of a child who is struggling turn to anyone other than a mental health professional?

Yes. They can turn to their child and they can look at him or her and they can ask them, “What do you need?”

Often, children don’t know how to articulate what they need.  However, they will try to tell you. Sometimes, when children “act out,” they are trying to tell you.

It is safe to assume that all children need love, they need security.  They need trust, in both themselves and in their caregivers. As someone with lived experience in this area, it is very difficult to trust people who call the police to take you away because they don’t understand what is going on with you.

What does it feel like when the people you most need to believe in the strength of your future and the sincerity of your struggle sit down and inform you that there is something imbalanced in your brain and that it means you’ll probably always struggle and that it means, also, that people may be scared of you, because they don’t understand.

Do you understand?

The idea of mental illness creates and sustains stigma, by informing us that people who struggle with their humanity in ways outside of the acceptable range of normality are inherently flawed,

What are the costs and benefits of investing in a pathologized view of your child?

What are the other options?

We now know that even people who have been diagnosed with “severe, persistent mental illnesses” can and do recover. We know, also, that many people live in the world in ways that are outside the boundaries of normative function but which suit them just fine.

Why would we accept a prognosis for ourselves and for our children that is so hopeless and fraught with anticipated trouble?

There is more and more evidence that trauma and abuse contribute mightily to people’s experiences of distress. However, the use of the term “mental illness” informs us that human difficulty is due to a brain disease and that those who have brain diseases must have these diseases “treated,” even if that treatment must be forced and even if it seems to do more harm than good.

People are beginning to realize that the “progressive” nature of many mental illnesses, the tendency for people to get worse rather than better, is very likely due to the damage caused by pharmaceutical therapies and profound psychosocial abuses. The voices of the people harmed by medical model interventions are largely disregarded by the biopsychiatric industry, as are the voices of the people who’ve recovered from difficulties that they were once told they could not recover from, that the best they could hope for was to “stabilize” and to “manage.”

Parents can’t stand it when their children are unhappy. It hurts parents to see their child struggle. They want to make it better. They want it to stop.

Parents will do anything to try to help.  They will miss work, they will fill out forms. They will take out loans and they will even, if asked to, hold their own child down, believing that it is what must be done to help.

I don’t think parents realize the exchange they are making when they buy into ideas and treatment that, over time, have the potential to erode some very basic relational/trust bonds between child and caregiver.  When I was in the midst of recognizing what had gone wrong in my story, I angrily told my mother, “You believed the professionals over me! You even trusted the professionals over yourself…and they didn’t even know what they were talking about!”

When the professionals teach mothers to see their children as ill, both mother and child are harmed in that they lose something essential to the parent-child relationship, which is the ability to see their children clearly, with compassion, love and a commitment to their brightest possible futures.

In my home, we don’t use the term mental illness, other than to occasionally remark that it is a shame that some people choose to see the human condition, rare and wonderful in each of us, as something that is sick.  We don’t use diagnostic terminology. Our lives have been written in relation to the system driven constructs of mental health for too long.

Who is to say, at this point, that the peg doesn’t fit because it is square. It is entirely possible that the hole was cut the wrong shape.

I stand by my statement that Michael has every right to be hurt, angry, and confused. In fact, I think every child in forced treatment has a right to be hurt, angry, and confused. Chances are good that being hurt, angry, and confused are what got them put into treatment in the first place, because the world has grown too busy for the messiness of a child’s broken heart, too clean for the jagged edges of their deepest fears, too normal for the mismatched intensity behind their closed eyes.

At the end of the day, which began hours and hours ago, with coffee on the porch and a small sigh of dismay to see that Liza’s essay had gone even further, I am thankful that I had a chance to think about how her story is also my story, and how my story is also her son’s story.  I feel hopeful that with dialogue, the conversations we need to have can be had and that these small tragedies amidst the much larger tragedy of children lost and parents wounded will somehow help us to see that the problem in this country is not one of mental illness, but one of intolerance, false science and brutally irresponsible treatment, trauma and grief, bonds broken and dreams dashed.

I am deeply sorry that some children become so wounded that they really do become ill, sick in their souls, ravaged by pain and rage, their brains addled by anti-this and anti-that, left with no safe place in the world and no one they can trust to speak to.

We have a responsibility, all mothers and as fathers and also as sisters and brothers, to protect one another from a fate so desolate and so damaging as that.


Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


  1. yes, Faith, thank you.
    Much of this dialogue has been chaotic and reactive which has been totally understandable but hard for those without lived experience to understand quite often…

    Your response is one that will cross boundaries I think…that’s a lovely talent to have.

    And I’m so glad you’ve underscored that forced psychiatric treatment is VIOLENCE. If people don’t understand the tragic irony inherent in that fact we will truly never resolve these issues.

  2. Thanks Faith, for giving an insight into both the mother and child perspective of the challenges facing us nowadays in daily living. Compounded by mental illness labels and forced treatment. We’re all in danger of being swept away by a hurricane not of our own making.

    As a mother and grandmother I know what you mean about trying to make the pain stop, and even trying to prevent any pain occurring. Preferring that my sons wouldn’t have to learn by their mistakes but rather learn by my mistakes. But it couldn’t be prevented and they had to go through their own trial and error sort of a thing. And I had to stand by and watch it. Then be prepared to help, if and when. It doesn’t get any easier when they are all grown up with bairns (children) of their own.

    It’s really tough today for mothers, I think, compared to even a few decades ago. The world is moving at a fast pace and to stand still in the midst of it is not easy. And I like your comment that “We are all in our own little worlds, together alone”. Mothers carry their babies inside them for 9 months, together as one, and then at childbirth the separation starts. For both. It’s a challenge.

  3. My mother has not written an essay, been critiqued under a microscope, nor have I committed heinous acts that would have spurred those debates. Instead, I was like Faith Hyne’s in my adolescence. I spent my struggling through dysfunction, parents infidelity, their subsequent divorce (but not before years of “functioning dysfunction” living amid the chaos & a hemisphere away from other family), and then a codependent mother who suddenly felt abandoned & looking for her next sickness to fix… my pubescent, angry, confused, displaced (now, back from the other side of the world) psyche made for an easy target.

    We were living with extended family, then in a small apartment right after the divorce. There was the new school in the small town of kids who had grown up together. My mom waged her battle against “the system” to get me seen by the right people, so that I could live “normally” with her and my sister and stop interrupting the calm she was convinced existed on the other side of my “sickness. I am sure that I did seem to be unresponsive to the pharmacy of medications I’d been given. I don’t remember staying on any 1 drug longer than 2-3 months. That includes the combinations of 3-4 medications at once. There was little to no structure in my life—remember, co-dependent mother, she’s the victim of me and I can’t be controlled. The few counseling sessions I remember we’re beyond frustrating as I listened to the parallel universe that existed for my Mom. The one where I was absolutely uncontrollable and continually destroyed the mirage of calm—all, of course, unfixable by the accounts of failed medication regimens.

    I’ve been free of any significant mental health diagnoses, while still regularly engaging in constructive therapy, since I left the area my Mom and her family live in. I have a fantastic and healthy marriage. I’ve earned my Bachelor’s degree in nursing and I’m currently in a Master’s program. I have an unnatural obsession with the field of psychology. I’m so intrigued by all of it. I attribute this, entirely, to those who had the obsession with my adolescent psyche, but never stepped back and let their roles as children, siblings, parents, or friends allow them the common sense to say, “her psyche is the only thing we haven’t addressed.”

    (My mother remains much the same as she was then and I have not spoken to her in the last three years. It was the single most freeing decision of my mental health.)

    • Wow.

      “remember, co-dependent mother, she’s the victim of me and I can’t be controlled.” “The one where I was absolutely uncontrollable and continually destroyed the mirage of calm—all, of course, unfixable by the accounts of failed medication regimens.”

      Gave me chills.

      I was 11 years old when I ran away from a sexually abusive step-father, whom I had been alone in the house with. I ran to my father’s parents’ house where shortly after arriving, the phone rang. It was the monster.

      Through gnashed teeth and threats of violence (usual), I was “embarrassing her” and commanded to go home immediately. Just a few months later, the sexually abusive step-father kicked me and my older brother out of the house on New Year’s Eve. 10PM, New Year’s Eve, an 11 and 13 year old wandering the streets at night. I actually hate New Year’s Eve, for way too many reasons.

      I had been confronted by monster when sexually abusive step-father told her that I had been locking my bedroom door at night. She told me to STOP locking my bedroom door.

      I got my first period on a day when monster was hosting a dinner party. She announced to the entire dinner table that I started my first period. For years, she forced her own periods on me – telling me every time she got her period, describing it in detail, whining and complaining to me. Her invasiveness and annihilation of my boundaries are still evident today.

      I eventually called the state and went into foster care, which resulted in my baby brother being taken away from monster and her parental rights terminated. It wasn’t HER fault that he was taken away. It was MY fault.

      I had that “you’re sick” thing put upon me as a child, from which she derived sympathy from others. She is a “master” manipulator and a genuine pathological liar. The word ‘sick’ itself is a huge trigger for me. Monster tells everyone her version about me, “she’s sick”. And they believe her.

      I haven’t seen my own daughters in over three years. I won’t be seeing my own kids this Holiday season but the state of New York thinks it’s okay for monster to see my kids. The state of NY is actually sending my kids to Massachusetts at the end of this month, to visit monster. Three years away from their Mom, my kids are successfully brainwashed. Even they say it, like parrots: Mom, get the help you need. You’re sick.

      It sort of burns me in Hell.

      Nobody truly knows a woman unless they have her as a mother.

      • After reading this I was suddenly struck by the fact that you’re a true survivor. You are a strong individual. However, I know that this doesn’t take the pain away. I’m not sure how one ever really gets rid of the pain, unless it’s by telling one’s story.

        I agree, you never truly know a woman unless you have her as a mother.

  4. Brava! What a gorgeous piece. Letter perfect, in my opinion. This is so close to my heart, and is my same understanding about how mental health issues can originate and flourish.

    “Can families find skilled and conscientious supporters to help empower their children to be confident in the worth of their differences and to find self-determined ways to navigate challenges? Can parents become, themselves, skilled and conscientious supporters of their children? Can parents of a child who is struggling turn to anyone other than a mental health professional?”

    Indeed! Yet, families seem to not have been doing terribly well, in general, at creating grounded, heartfelt, authentic, emotionally and spiritually generous individuals. Neither has society. (I’m sticking here to referring to American society, which is what I know from lived experience). Perhaps some pretty healthy and generous folk, here and there, but this group is being glaringly overpowered by what seem to be dominant toxic influences, whether it be damaging family dynamics or a culture of social ills—both of which we seem to have, in abundance.

    What comes first, individual or social healing? Certainly, one stems directly from the other. How can an individual be healthy with no healthful support, when it would seem that a sick society would prefer to prevent healing of the sick, based on esoteric power dynamics? By the same token, how can a society heal when its individual members are literally driven mad by that same society? These are the questions on which I currently meditate. In the meantime, I work to keep myself healing and growing in my spiritual awareness every day. I feel that’s really the best I can do for myself, my family, and for my society.

    Thank you for your wonderful and enlightened article!

  5. Wonderful piece, Faith. I’m glad you held out sympathy for the mother. We’ve all been in her shoes, tired and stuck in a confrontational rut with a particular child. In my case, it was actually my middle son, who never got saddled with a mental health label, but boy, was he a challenge. He didn’t then, and still won’t now, do anything if it comes with an order attached. I would yell, he would yell. I got to the point where I was bribing him with “treats” if he would get through the day without a major shouting match between us. (I know, I know – poor parenting skills – I was desperate!)After one particular incident, my husband and I took him to a psychologist who fixed the problem in about two sessions. The psychologist said to me, your son is like Huckleberry Finn. He wants to do what he wants to do and he doesn’t want all these restrictions placed on him. He wants to be free to roam. (Suburban mothers live in fear of the man in the white van snatching children – Eyewitness News stuff that we mothers tend to stupidly pay attention to, to the detriment of our children.) The penny dropped for me. We moved just after that to a city with a great transportation system. He was 11. I said, “here’s your bus pass, kid” – come home when you are good and tired. Things got better for us and today I would say we have a pretty good relationship. I learned not to even try to control him.

  6. It’s very interesting for me to see the other side where young people were over treated. The adults in my life didn’t believe in treatment and just told me to snap out of it. I didn’t know how to help my son nor could I afford any medical assistance and the schools were terrible at helping me to figure out what was going on with him. At age 30 he still struggles with the same problems that I have plus substance abuse. I in turn have felt like a horrible mother – yes I know – co-dependence. So the cycle turns. Not that we are not working on it, we are.

    Things are looking better each day. But for those that were over treated, at least your parents cared enough to try and do something instead of telling you that there was nothing wrong with you and leaving you to feel like you belonged nowhere, least of all in your own family. What does it all mean?

  7. Reflections on Connecticut – I have to say as someone in recovery now for many years that I always think very heavily on events such as the one recently in Connecticut. I remember the first such similar episode in Columbine years ago. I remember my first reaction was horror but by second reaction was a sad kind of laughter. Not laughter at the actual events but laughter at how the media was portraying the perpetrators. Over and over and over we heard “oh he was the nicest person, he never got angry, he was the last person in the world we would ever expect….etc. etc” I laughed inside because I was once one of those individuals in my own life in my own high school. Thanks be to God that I never had outward violent tendencies, but did I carry around that kind of anger inside of me, ABSOLUTELY!!!! And would I have been described as the nicest person, the ideal student, etc, yes you bet I would. My course was a different one, my life imploded by the time I reached college, my anger turned inward into fifteen years of schizophrenia and hopelessness.
    So what am I saying? I am saying that we need more school social workers, school psychologists, and more education on mental illness in general. In my high school, we were taught about sexuality and contraception but no one was given and education about basic signs of mental illness. How many kids begin to have symptoms of mental illness by their high school years? Millions and millions. Why is mental illness in the closet? Why don’t we teach parents and especially kids about it??? In my life as a social worker, I see over and over, the kind of dysfunctional families from which a mentally ill person comes from. If the family can’t provide, who will? Who will stem the anger? Who will reach out their hand when the anger gets so enormous that a kid wants to lash out? It has to be the school, it simply has to be.
    Let’s get well trained people in the schools, let’s educate our teachers, let’s educate our parents, lets especially educate our kids so that mental illness is out of the closet.
    When people react to these tragedies by blaming it on mental illness, they do so because it’s the easier thing to do than to look in the mirror and ask themselves, is there something I can do to eliminate the stigma? Is the answer to simply “blame” these killings on mental illness or is to promote PREVENTION!!! Mental illness does not happen in a vacuum, it is only scary when it goes ignored for years and years.

  8. “At age 12, I sat in a room with my mother, in an office that I didn’t want to be in, and listened to her discuss with a doctor what might be “wrong” with me. She was concerned and she had every right to be. In fact, she had a responsibility to be and, as a mother, she had an instinct to be. I was her child and I was struggling. I was angry, violent, suicidal, sullen, and rude.”

    This, for me, captures the “paternalistic” nature of society? As Murray Bowen pointed out in the 1950’s, “society functions just like an extended family?” The Doctor, “the health care professional,” is perhaps “saddled” with “projection” of paternalistic needs, as the good enough parent we never had?

    Charged with prividing “the missing experience,”your ok my child, everything is alright and nothing to fear, but the sensation of fear “inside?” If Daddy had been there? Would he have held me in arms, all through the night? Would he have imparted the vital need of a “secure base,” with his embrace?

    Would my good enough parents have downloaded, as if by magic, the neural imprinting of my brian/nervous systems requirment of “secure base” through their loving gaze? Loving Eyes – Like a neural wifi connection, ensure the magic, in that generational transmission of affect/emotion and crucial need of positive vitality effects?

    Sadly, most Doctors simply “rationalize” these vital secure-base needs, perhaps not having really experienced them themselves, with own good enough parents? Does our tendency for verbal diarrhoea have much to do with “being fully present” for each other? Imparting, by “the transmission of affect” those oh so vital “attachment” needs?

    Its wonderful writing Faith, I wish I had your gift and your determination to take us beyond the typical reactions of fear & loathing.

    Best wishes,

    David Bates.

  9. Faith-
    This is a beautiful and articulate essay. It captures so much of the complexity of this discussion which will be ongoing. I appreciate that you do not deny the pain and confusion that families’ may experience while at the same time recognizing that our currently available treatments and constructs for even framing the discussion may not help and may make things worse.
    Thank you,

  10. I don’t know if I was mentally ill during my first diagnosis. I actually don’t even remember it. I was six, and my mother likes to regale me with the story. The words sound like she should be embarrassed of me, but like all of her best remarks they are said in a sugary sweet voice like she’s telling me some well kept secret. I guess she didn’t like that diagnosis because I was with a different doctor six years later. I still don’t know if there was anything mentally wrong with me then, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that if there weren’t a few things sideways in my head then, by the time they were all done (and they’re never done because she can call or drive over even now) there was quite a lot wrong. Some of it even I wouldn’t know about for another twenty years. One thing that has always stayed with me though is the way that diagnosis began to define me, and the way they used the label like a weapon. “It’s not our fault. See! There’s something wrong with you!” However, I have to wonder, do people with serious mental illnesses ever come from a family where there isn’t something notably wrong with them too?