The foundation on which I’d been built crumbled to rubble beneath my feet. And with it, I too fell. I wanted to cry. But no sound came out. I longed desperately to cling to my mother’s side, like a child on their first day of preschool. But I couldn’t.

Our unconscious mind harnesses power. For some people – people like my mom – the unconscious holds secrets from the conscious. And if those secrets become uncovered, the conscious snaps. That’s what happened. My mom. My foundation. In ruins.

Manic Depressive breakdown. That was the technical name the doctors used to describe my mom’s condition. You don’t understand! I thought. Please just let me explain, in my own terms. But they wouldn’t listen. What does a fifteen year-old know? They didn’t listen. I wanted to scream at them. But I couldn’t.

From a young age my mother—and her younger siblings—suffered abuse…in every imaginable form of the word. At age five, I knew nothing of suffering. At age five, my mother had suffered—from bruises, belts, and boys. I stood back and watched as my mother retreated back to a time that she could remember feeling safe. My mom. My foundation. In ruins.

“Oh, how mature you are.” The doctors and nurses remarked. “It is hard to believe you are only fifteen.” Despite how strong, how mature, and how brave I looked on the outside, I was rubble. But the craziest thing about strength is it comes to you when you need it most. I thought I couldn’t stand strong. I thought I couldn’t stay brave. I thought I couldn’t rebuild. But I could.
Like the stray boards a tornado leaves behind, I uncovered strength in the crumbled pieces of my foundation. By the end of this I will be just as strong as she is. That was the thought that kept me going. My strength. My foundation. Rebuilt.