It’s been hard having to deal with a diagnosed mental health challenge for most of my life. Every day, I have to be aware of where my emotions are heading, how low is “too low,” and the difference between seriously wanting to die and just having a really bad day. I have to have the recognition that, at least right now, one of the major reasons for my prolonged stability is taking the right combination of psychiatric medications consistently every day. Having to deal with all of that, and adding a clear lack of family support on top of it, made my journey to my now-almost-fourth year of stability much harder.
Growing up in a big family, as a relatively happy person, in a relatively safe small town, family was important to me. Being adopted, I already knew family didn’t have to be blood-related, but as far as I was concerned, being part of a family, even an adoptive one, meant that we all looked out for each other. And that even if we had challenges or conflicts, family was family, and you never turned your back on them.
That all changed when I hit an all-time low in my mental health journey when I was 19. I’d been hospitalized off and on about six times over the course of three years before that, but I was always able to change medication, continue therapy, and get back to my life in the community. That year, though, I was hospitalized 13 times, was admitted to and decided to quit partial hospitalization programs twice, and switched therapists multiple times. On top of all of that, all of a sudden, the little emotional support from my family that I had been receiving was taken away.
I was in the lowest emotional spot I’d been in my life, and even my family couldn’t stand being around me anymore. In this particular circumstance, I was told by my parent during a three-minute phone call, while at an inpatient hospitalization, that I would not be welcome to come back home after I got out, leaving me effectively homeless. This one phone call extended that hospital stay for over a month due to my increased suicidality and hopelessness.
Four years later, I have learned some valuable lessons about family through the few rough years that followed that phone call. I’ve learned that family is whatever you want to define it as, and whomever you want to include in that definition. It doesn’t have to be blood-related or a legal bond, like adoption. It can be whoever you feel is your family.
I now have a self-made family that is my most important support system. It’s made up of close friends from all walks of life who I have chosen to become my family. They’re the adult supporters who cheered me on when I became homeless and who supported my decisions in my mental health journey. They knew that I was capable of more and stood by my side to help me achieve it. They’re former clinicians who went above and beyond their job descriptions and, to this day, maintain a connection with me. They are peers from all walks of life and age groups who sat by my side, listened to me at my lowest, and knew where I was coming from because they’ve experienced challenges too. Peers who would validate my situation, but also wouldn’t let me drown in despair because they knew all too well the dangers of dwelling too long in the deep end.
I think one of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn for my own mental well-being is the recognition that even if someone is supposed to be family, it is unrealistic to expect their support when they are not capable of being supportive. And for me, in my individual journey, that recognition also meant forgiving those people for past wounds, and not holding on to those negative feelings or letting them affect my interactions today.
Because for me, if I’m letting those past wounds inform my present, then I’m being held back from being the best version of myself that I can be. And not becoming the best version of myself isn’t something I’m willing to risk.
Written by a Youth MOVE Massachusetts guest blogger
