And Now I Spill the Family Secrets: An Illustrated Memoir

This is how silence works in families: it means questions go unanswered, timelines are unclear, and the details of a child's life are a mystery that will not be resolved.

I settled into the water for some serious reflection. Bathrooms made supreme thinking spaces, a place that defied interruption.

I once watched a video of a deer being rescued from drowning only to find herself surrounded by humans, and then she ran immediately back into the water. It's what panic looks like. An animal feeling of blind propulsion that aims at survival but doesn't quite get it right. We are so preoccupied with disaster that we step right into it.

Grief is a swarm of feelings that swirls inside of you for your whole life; it's a weight that settles around the eyes, transforms the shape of a laugh. It is sadness mixed with a furious rage churning in an ocean of helplessness. It's an old word, dating back to the 1200s, and its latin roots mean to "make heavy." The first six definitions in the Oxford English Dictionary describe various types of hardship or physical pain. The seventh definition makes me think grief is the correct term for the storm of emotion I associate with my mom's mental illness. "Mental pain, distress, or sorry...deep or violent sorrow, caused by loss or trouble; a keen or bitter feeling of regret for something lost, remorse for something done, or sorrow for mishap to oneself or others.

What enraged me about my mother's illness was not precisely the issue of money; it was the fact that she transformed from parent to stranger. The manic episodes would erupt and turn her into a tornado of destruction. Any money she had disappeared. She was fired from jobs, discrimination laws be damned. She struck up friendships with customers at random places. Piles of clutter became mountains in her home; we had to literally clean up the mess. Worst of all, she became impossible to talk to. Her eyes darted around the room and as the speed of her speech increased, what she said made no sense. She could be mean, her language suddenly laden with swears. No one could slow her down or connect with her and she felt gone from me. The person I knew was not there anymore. When that person is your mother, the world becomes a frighteningly uncertain place where anything is possible, as if all the trees and all the world sprouted knives for branches. In the hospital I couldn't say any of this; money was just an easy thing I could point to, a worthless rebuttal to the fact of her bipolar disorder.

All together, someone would always be missing and I could feel the pull of that longing in my chest, in the pit of my stomach.