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**Rhyne. (Sorry! Autocomplete snagged that one.) 🙂
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.)