It was a little over a week later, and I was nervous.
My stomach was churning, but I had to do this. We’d had our field trip over the weekend, and today was when we were presenting on what we learned. Wade just finished, so it was my turn.
She looked up. “Mara?”
I stood, smoothing a hand down my shirt as I walked to the front of the class.
I hated speeches. I hated how forced things came across. The use of visual aids. I just hated all of it, maybe because I tuned out unless someone was speaking about something they knew, not just what they learned to get the grade or what they put together based on what they thought the professor wanted to hear.
Maybe that was in the back of my mind because I hadn’t prepared for this presentation at all. The professor took a seat in one of the student desks, and I felt the attention from her TA.
I got to the front of the class and brought up a picture of my mom.
A small murmur went through the room. A few people were pulling up their phones, no doubt looking for the article about my mother that we got pulled within a day of it going up.
I gestured to the picture. “This is my mom.” I glanced in the TA’s direction before addressing the rest of the class. “I was asked earlier this semester if I was mature enough for this class. It’s for upperclassmen, and me being a freshman, the TA didn’t think I was ready.”
I ignored how her eyes narrowed or how the professor’s head snapped in her direction. I just told my story. “The truth is that I’ve been preparing for this class all my life. My mom was diagnosed with histrionic personality disorder, and recently they’ve attached a couple other diagnoses with it. I can’t tell you when I knew, but I’ve known all my life that my mother was different. We’ve studied the disorder in here. You guys know the DSM requirements, but the point of this presentation isn’t about my mom or how I grew up, it’s about what we learned from our field trip. And what I learned from that trip is that I could’ve done this presentation before the trip. I didn’t need to go to a facility because I’ve been going to those facilities on and off, half my life. I’m tired of it. I’ve visited my mom there. Sometimes with my dad. Sometimes with a social worker. Sometimes with a child protective service staff member. You name it, we’ve run the gamut.
“And I can tell you the symptomology of chronic depression, anxiety, borderline, schizophrenia, and Jesus, so many. I know the symptoms. I’ve seen the symptoms. That’s not the point of these presentations. I’m supposed to stand here and tell you how people who have struggles with mental illness are people, and that’s true. They are. I’m sure I could go in and get a diagnosis myself. For sure anxiety. With my mom having what she has, I’ve got severe trust issues. I’m always waiting for the ‘shoe to drop.’ When my dad calls, I prepare myself every time for the newest crisis because with my mom, the world is ending every day. I’ve had to teach myself that it’s not true. That the world is not after her. The neighbor who looked at her isn’t plotting to get her money or her husband or her daughter. That she doesn’t have cancer even though she constantly says she does.
“When I came to college, I wanted a break. And I got it. I did, but I’ve learned other things, like how I can have friends, how they can know about my mom, and they aren’t going to judge me. Or look down on me because of her or look down on her because at the end of the day, she’s my mom.” My voice broke, just one break. “This disease or disorder took her from me. It took her daughter from her. I might not be able to have a relationship with my mom, at least not right now, but I love her. And maybe that’s what I need to present about. That no matter the diagnosis or the symptoms or how exhausting and hard life can be, that person is a person.
“They’re someone’s mother, sister, daughter, loved one, father, brother, son, uncle, aunt, grandmother, grandfather. There’s ups and downs, or dips and valleys, and sometimes they’ll get help and sometimes they won’t, and sometimes they’ll get on a new medication and it’ll work, and sometimes it’ll stop working so there’ll be a new medication, and to each their own.
“I can tell you that some therapy works, some don’t, some therapists are great, and others aren’t a great fit. I can tell you that there are some people who work in that field who shouldn’t, but there are some who were born to do it, and I swear, it’s their life purpose. There’s good and bad. There’s heavy and light. So, wrapping up my presentation, which I made it mostly about me, ironically, is that there’s ebbs and flows. Some have harder struggles than others. Some can get on one med and they’re ‘fixed’ and others take a lifetime, but it’s life. I don’t think I did what the presentation was supposed to be about, but I couldn’t because I didn’t learn anything new going to those two facilities. What I am learning this whole year is that healing can be achieved for some of us who didn’t think it was possible, and I’m hopeful that maybe one day, I can have a relationship with her. Because I love her, because she’s my mom.”
I felt weird, and awkward as I headed for my seat. Exposed. But it was a whole different outlook to go from keeping friends at a distance where I was almost living two separate lives to suddenly having people who knew me. Who I could go to, talk to, not have to be vague about the normal and easy questions, and not having to avoid people because my battery for life was already in the red. It was new and uncomfortable, but whatever.
I almost laughed at myself. Look at me, being hopeful.
The professor called me over, with the TA standing to the side. “Mara, I had no idea Torrance was questioning if you should be here or not. I, personally, had approved your place here because I read your application essay. Please accept my apology for any stress you endured from Torrance’s doubt. It was not her place to question my decision. I am very sorry.”
That was surprising, and then she gave the TA a stern look.
Torrance cleared her throat. She tucked her hands behind her back and squared her shoulders. She didn’t totally look me in the eye, but she was looking at me. Probably my forehead so the effect was the same. “I had no idea about your background, and I apologize. It wasn’t my place.”
Right. I gave each a nod, not used to adults acting, well; adult-like.
When I went out into the hallway, Wade was waiting for me. He flashed me a sad smile. “Things make more sense. I heard about your mom, and read the article.”
I nodded, but there wasn’t anything to say. I lifted a shoulder. “Uh. Yeah.”
A cloud came over him, his eyebrows dipping low. “Can I–uh–I’m sorry if I was a dick that day. At the Cain fraternity party. I–”
“You really liked Angela.”
His mouth closed, tightly and he nodded. “Yeah. I did.” He laughed, abruptly, and raked a hand through his hair. “I feel like a dumbass because you gave this whole speech and made yourself vulnerable, and I just want to ask you about Angela. She told me she’s not in a place to date anyone.”
“Did she say why?”
His head lowered. “Said something serious happened. That was it, but how’s she doing?”
I didn’t have a response for him.
His eyes locked on mine, and he sighed. “I have to let her go, huh?”
“I don’t know. Honestly.”
“Okay. Okay!” A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he put an arm around my shoulder as we both began for the door. “Roomie to roomie, I could go for a drink.”
I held up a fist. “I’m down.”
He laughed, meeting his fist to mine. “At the house or the pub?”
I considered it, then knew. “At the pub.”
