I wake up.
It’s my mom.
She’s suffering again.
I go to see if she woke up my dad.
I open my door and see 2 police officers, just like the old days.
How did I not hear anything until now?
Was my fan that powerful to mask out the voices?
Will she actually get help this time?
Please, she needs help. I don’t want her to suffer anymore.
God knows that I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep.
Maybe the officers left?
Does that mean my mom’s not getting help?
How long until she stops suffering.
More yelling, more yelling.
Did I fall asleep?
Was I able to fall asleep?
Full on yelling.
She’s yelling at someone directly.
She’s having a violent outburst.
Please tell me everyone’s safe.
Please tell me she’s going to get help.
My brother’s voice.
My dad’s voice.
Are they safe?
Is my mom okay?
The officers came back.
But I never knew what happened.
I listen as I’m laying in bed, my fan unable to mask the voices this time.
Crying, full on crying.
She doesn’t want to go to the hospital.
But mom, you have to. I don’t want to see you suffer anymore. Please.
I block my ears out.
I pray to God.
I keep praying until I think that the noises stop.
My heart starts palpitating and tears start to form.
I cry out to God.
I keep covering my ears.
I start singing to God.
So I don’t have to hear any more noise.
I keep singing.
I sing the same chorus over and over again.
“Lord I need You, Oh I need You.”
I keep singing and singing.
Because I don’t want to hear any more.
I’m afraid to stop singing.
I’m afraid to uncover my ears.
I uncover my ears.
I’m already on my phone.
I swipe left to the alarm ringing because I’m already awake.
I come out of my room to head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
My dad hears me.
Did he get any sleep?
He asks me what time I have to be at school.
All that I think about are the screams and the crying.
I don’t even remember the sound of them.
I just feel it.
It keeps haunting me.
Please, don’t leave me alone. I can’t be stuck in my thoughts right now.
We’re reading the stories that we wrote in a small group of 4.
One girl in my group reads her story.
She turns her page.
She was facing me so I could she the page that was facing me.
I read that page, because I like reading stories better than listening to them, that way I pay attention and know what’s going on.
I read the page and on it has the word: schizophrenia.
Next to that it said: not guilty about the violence they cause.
I think of this morning.
I think of my mom.
I think of all the times she had one of her bad days and when the monster extremely overtook her well-being.
Call me seeing that page a coincidence.
At this point I don’t believe in coincidences.
I walk into my mom’s room.
The floor is clean.
The sheets are gone.
Is she ok?
My grandma calls.
Is she mad?
Is she trying to get my mom out of the hospital?
She talks to me.
She says my mom is doing better.
That it was a great thing she went to the hospital.
My grandma accepted it!
My mom is finally getting treated.
She doesn’t have to suffer anymore.
She can get help.
It got better.
God answered my long-awaited prayer.
And just like my pastor said this week “Prayers don’t have expiration dates.”
To be able to write this, that she’s getting help, you can’t even imagine my relief.
To go from the first time I talked about my mom’s disorder: Personal
You can’t even being to imagine how relieved I am.
She’s getting help.
I have faith that she’s going to get better.
She’s not going to suffer anymore.