Suzie's Mental Health Awareness Scholarship

When I was a young child with squishy feet and button toes, I would waddle into the kitchen every morning. The linoleum floors were cold, but not cold enough to stop me. I would rummage through the drawers to find the peanut butter, and then place it on the counter. If it was a Good Day, my mom would open it for me. I remember thinking that her hands seemed huge: they could grasp the entire lid and spin it around and around without getting tired. I’d try to get the waffles out of the toaster with a knife, but my mom would sigh and say, “No, Sweet Lily, do you want the toaster to shock you?” and then carefully pull the waffles out herself. She’d then spread the peanut butter, sometimes letting me drizzle the syrup. When I was a young child, I did almost nothing to help prepare this breakfast, but I loved it because every bite was a reminder that my mom loved me. On Good Days, she would kiss me on my cheek and pour me some orange juice. On Good Days, she would remind me to put my napkin in my lap. But when I was a young child, Good Days weren’t all that common. Sometimes, I’d waddle into the kitchen and rummage through the drawers, and I’d hum as my button toes got cold. I’d sit there and wait, but my mom wouldn’t come. Instead, when the door opened, it was my dad; eyes rimmed with purple bags, wrinkled work clothes hastily thrown on. He would smile and scoop me up in his arms, saying “Morning kiddo! We’re not doing waffles today. How’d you sleep?” and then I’d perform a twenty-minute rendition of my dreams while we walked to the neighborhood taco truck, Tío's Tacos. Tío's Tacos were the best in the world, and Dad would always save two, “For your mommy,” he’d say, “when she’s ready to get up”. Maybe it’s because now I know that my mom was severely depressed, or maybe it’s because I know what comes next, but these early memories I have are sun-bleached and crinkled when they play out in my mind. In the end, my mom cheated on my dad, and they got divorced. My dad, brother, and I moved to Ohio, but my mom stayed in Texas for a year before following us. After that, I saw her on weekends. Every Saturday, we'd wake up to the smell of peanut butter waffles. She had finally made the brave choice to get treatment, and though it didn’t cure her, it helped her manage the symptoms. Although difficult, my childhood gave me perspective. I learned that everybody struggles, and that doesn’t make anyone less deserving of love and respect. It taught me to have an open mind and empathetic heart. At my old school, I was called the “unofficial school counselor” because of this attitude. I wore the name with pride because it meant people trusted me with their problems. Many aren’t as lucky as I am. Somewhere, there is a little kid who needs help, a struggling family seeking answers, a good person whose own brain makes them suffer. I intend to pursue my passion for psychology to help those children, families, and people in pain. I will find answers that are more than a diagnosis: we need to identify and solve the core issues in mental health as a society and species. I will look at psychology and neuroscience from a global perspective to discover how to make a worldwide impact. Good Days can be common.