Ella Howell is a fourth-year journalism major and writes a column for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the newspaper.
Until my last year of middle school, I remained in a blissful state of ignorance.
I often questioned the origins of mental illness but could never understand the fact that some people woke up daily plagued with an indescribable sadness.
There’s a very specific feeling of lightness that comes with that state of ignorance. But it really isn’t possible to grasp until it’s no longer there.
Before being diagnosed with depression and anxiety, which began a daily regime of taking a specially curated cocktail of antidepressants, I started to become very self-aware of my presence and appearance at all times. To a certain extent, that was a normal aspect of my age at the time, but there was an accelerator adding fuel to that hormonal fire.
By my second year of high school, I was very confused about my identity and was extremely self-conscious. The diminishing state of my mental health, in an already challenging time in adolescence, kept me from realizing the main issue: my mom’s mental health.
I’ve always been compared to my mom and viewed as being just like her. I’ve been told countless times that I look like her, sound like her and act like her. As the state of her mental health plummeted, it was no shock to me that mine followed right behind.
Children with a parent who has a serious mental illness (SMI) are 50 percent more likely to develop a mental health problem and 32 percent more likely to have a SMI themselves, according to the National Library of Medicine.
My own mother was responsible for some of the worst things that have ever been said or done to me. Other adults I was supposed to trust developed a tainted perspective of me because they saw me through the lens of someone with a severe mental illness. I felt very alone and began to isolate myself.
I began to pull away from all of my friend groups, became more introverted and started engaging in self-destructive behavior. By my third year of high school, I had one close friend, and I had never connected with another person the way I connected with her. I think I recognized a similar internal struggle in her that I was experiencing within myself.
When my mom threw soda at me in our kitchen, she was the person I called as it dripped out of my hair and into a sticky puddle by my feet. When my father told me he thought it was best if I didn’t come home for the night after talking to my mom, I cried in her car as she called her parents to tell them I was sleeping at their house.
Without her, I truly believe I wouldn’t have made it through that time in my life.
But both of our mental states grew to become mutually destructive.
During a time when I was at my worst, I turned to what I thought was my only safe space. Looking back, I realize while acting as a haven for one another, we were also causing harm.
My friend’s parents decided that our relationship was not good for each other, and they were right. After being cut off from one of my few sources of support, I was devastated.
As my mom’s mental health worsened and I got older, I tried to have conversations with her that something wasn’t right and that she should seek professional help. Those conversations never went over well. After multiple unsuccessful conversations, combined with the fact that I was leaving for college in less than a year, I gave up trying.
Anosognosia is a condition that keeps someone from recognizing the state of their health. It is very common among people with certain mental conditions. According to the Cleveland Clinic, 40 percent of people with bipolar disorder experience this.
When I wasn’t out with my friend, I was at home in my bed, avoiding my mom to preserve what little energy I had. I sobbed almost daily for hours for absurd reasons. Getting showered and dressed for the day was a win.
In March of 2021, three months after I graduated high school, my mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after an episode of psychosis. Due to a lack of treatment for her mental health, her mind just crashed out.
I thought her getting better would be a magical fix to all of my problems, but it wasn’t. I felt guilty for the years of damage to my relationship with my mom. I felt I could’ve done more to protect the connection we had when I was younger.
Just two months after my mom’s diagnosis, I was tucked under a blanket in the dark, watching back-to-back episodes of Gilmore Girls — a normal ritual for me with an endless queue of shows — when I heard my doorbell ring. A few minutes later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.
I told who I assumed was my mom to come in without even sitting up, hoping to avoid another confrontation about what I did all day, but I heard my friend's voice for the first time in six months as she walked through my door.
I sat up, again with the false expectation that this would be the magical solution to my poor mental state. She explained to me that she told her parents she was leaving, packed a bag and made the over five-mile trek to my house on foot.
After talking with my parents, she moved in with us and stayed in my room with me. The first few weeks were fine; I had my best friend back in my life. But it slowly shifted as I saw a lot of similarities in her. Not with myself this time, but with my mom.
I recognized the harm she was doing not only to my mental state but to my already emotionally vulnerable family. After two months of her living at my house, there were a few too many instances that left me and my family worried about her.
Her dad came to pick her up and take her back home. Shortly after, she received the same diagnosis my mom had just months before. This time, the emptiness of her presence in my life left me with more of a realization than a sense of desolation.
After being surrounded by turmoil and instability for a few years, I truly believe that mental illness can be contagious. It is part of our responsibility to those around us to find a way to prevent our poor mental health from feeding each other and spreading to our loved ones.
Whether you need medication, to speak with a therapist or a simple change in routine, not only do you owe it to others, you owe it to yourself to escape from that shared anguish.
It is easy to fall into a cycle of mutual destruction with the people you’re supposed to love, and admitting you need help is one of the first steps to breaking that cycle.
Contact Ella Howell via email at ella.howell@bsu.edu.
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