S.S.

When I was ten years old, my older brother attempted to commit suicide for the first time. I had been at rehearsal when my dad came and told me that I would be staying friend that night then asked what I needed from the house. Since it was a weekday and a school night, I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t until days later that I found out my older brother had been sent to a mental hospital because he tried to jump out of a car while my mom was driving. After that, I had to grow up very quickly. I was in fifth grade and I was learning what “suicide,” “bipolar disorder,” and “psychiatric care facility” meant. I felt shut out from my friends because these big, adult things were happening in my life but no one around me could relate. While other kids were worried about what Christmas presents they would get, I was worried about coming home one day to find my brother dead. While he eventually came back home from the hospital, our family dynamic never went back to normal. With all of the attention put on trying to watch my brother’s every move, I was left feeling like I couldn’t cause any issues for my parents. They already had one “problem” child, I couldn’t add to their stress by being another. So, in every way possible I tried to be perfect. For the next few years, I started obsessing about my grades much more than usual, I joined new clubs so I wouldn’t have to spend time at home, and I kept every negative emotion I had to myself. I couldn’t tell my friends that I wanted to know what cutting myself was like or ask my mom why I was having suicidal thoughts. I had to put on a smile and a brave face so no one would worry about me. I remember one day when I was 13, I woke up to a screaming match between my mom and brother. I don’t remember what they were fighting about. But, I do remember watching my brother run out our front door and scream “Call the police! This lady isn’t my mom! She’s trying to kidnap me!” when my mom tried to bring him back inside. When the police arrived, my mom tearfully cleared the situation up while our neighbors gawked at us from their lawns. As my brother sat in the back of the cop car until he calmed down, I was left to console my heartbroken mom. I held her while she cried, while she blamed herself for the whole situation. Did I break down and cry? Did I show how much seeing my family fall apart like this affect me? Of course not. It was my job to smile and console and say that everything was to be okay. As I look back trying to remember how many times my brother attempted suicide or was sent away to a treatment center, I can’t. I feel like at some point I just became numb to it all and didn’t let myself be affected anymore. This way of living and my strive to be perfect took a toll on my mental health and relationships as I got older. In high school, I tried to keep myself as busy as possible so I didn’t have to deal with the fact that my parents were getting divorced and my older brother never talked to me. I didn’t want to deal with the fact that I had many symptoms for depression because I didn’t want to put my family through anything else. I had such a difficult time connecting to other people because I felt this weight of everything I had been going through since that day in fifth grade. I thought that I was the only one who had dealt with anything like this. Eventually, I was able to handle my situation by being vulnerable with other people, including myself. During my junior year, I finally opened up to my mom about everything I had been bottling up. I told her that I have had suicidal thoughts since I was 11, that I had self-harmed at 12, that for the past six years of my life I had this weight on me that I wanted to let go of. Taking that first step to tell her definitely lifted it a little. I also found that the more people I opened up to, the less heavy I felt. During my senior year, I was in a peer mentoring class where we constantly opened up to each other about the hard stuff in our lives. Even though it sounds like a cliche, it really did help to know that I wasn’t the only one who dealt with something like this. Overall, the reason why I didn’t share my experiences on social media is the fact that it would violate my family’s privacy. Even though my brother’s struggle with mental illness affected me, it’s not my place to tell people about his medical history or personal life. Also, I liked having my friends separate from my life at home. At school, I didn’t have to think about the fights or the pain, I could just be normal. If I had posted my feelings for everyone to see, I wouldn’t be able to feel that normalcy. If I had shared it, I think the response would’ve been positive and supportive from my peers but negative from my family. My brother and I already have a strained relationship, so posting what I’ve been through publicly would definitely strain it more. To anyone reading this who can relate to my story in any way, I want to tell you that vulnerability is much more important than you might think. While it can be extremely difficult to open up, it’s so rewarding. Don’t try to carry all that weight yourself as I did for years, take that first step and talk to someone. Vulnerability is not weakness, it’s the greatest form of courage.