If you have friends, if you have family, if you can see the world in front of you, chances are you can see someone with a mental illness. As much as mental stability can be reflected on the outside, it can also hide and bottle up on the inside. When someone is struggling with their psychological health, our first thought is to recommend therapeutical help. And even though it’s a good recommendation, obtaining help is not always easy, affordable, or accessible. I, along with many others, know that shortcoming all too well. “96..97..98..99..” I would count repetitively as I touch my finger tips together. If I thought of the upcoming number too slowly, I would restart from zero. I would continue to count while rocking myself, balancing off the heels of my church shoes, ignoring the staring adults passing by. I noticed the stares and the scowls but I never stopped my counting to wonder what made my behavior so sporadic. All throughout the drive home, counting, counting, counting. I counted the number of clicks I made with my tongue, the trees we passed, the seconds of every song that played on the radio. “We’re home”, my dad said as we pulled into the driveway. What was supposed to be a short notice of arrival became a threat to me. How dare someone interrupt my counting? Doesn’t he have one considerable bone in his body? I stomped my way into the house, though the kitchen, and to the bathroom where I cried until my face felt hot and my head was throbbing. I didn’t love counting, I didn’t love the intense focus, or the anger that came after disruption. But I couldn’t stop and every time I tried to ignore the urge to count, I would find my will being interrupted by the numbers. “1..2..3.” Stop! Why can’t I just have one moment of peace? No counting. I took my concerns to God that night. “Oh, God, please stop me from counting. I hate it. I want to relax. Please..” then a familiar voice would chime in, “Shut up. Gods not real and praying will do nothing. Keep counting”. 1..2..3.. For years, occurrences like these would happen over and over again. My frustration with this chaotic inner voice would only increase to the point of self harm. Hitting, pinching, scratching, clawing, I did anything to get me to stop counting and thinking thoughts I didn’t agree with. All the while, no one stopped to question my behavior. I felt like a spectacle, a sight to see, while I continued my self conflicting routine. The more I grew up, the more methods I learned to mask these actions and save myself from embarrassment. Count with your mouth closed, keep your finger tips touching close to your hip, and do NOT stand on your heels. But as much as this saved me from the awkward gawking of strangers, I still struggled to focus on anything but these repetitive actions. I had always heard of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s something your mom says when she cleans a minor mess. “it’s my OCD! I’m a perfectionist.” But never would I begin to imagine I might have it. It was heartbreaking but freeing to learn that I had it. So much time, pain, and effort could’ve been saved if someone just paid attention and catered to my behavior. And that’s why I aspire to be in the MH field. Imagine all the anguish and confusion released from the world if we all had someone to talk to, someone to care and listen, someone to help.

When you hear “dream house”, one would think of a luxurious, over-the-top mansion. A trophy house that would make your worst enemies jealous. A place to pose and pause. After all, that’s the house Barbie has, right? But I don’t think a house has to be dazzling and eye catching to be a dream house. My dream house wouldn’t be a mansion, but a 1 level elevated home with a beautiful spacious porch, covered by a white roof supported by white wood beams with the prettiest intricate detailing. My house would be baby pink, surrounded by a green voluminous moss lawn with huge shadowy trees, lit by round light bulbs surrounding the perimeter of my white picket fence. I would have a flower garden with a pond and a white-grey stone water fountain in the middle. Cozy soft pink furniture lies in my backyard, waiting to be sat on and enjoyed. Birds and critters alike would flock to my yard for security and comfort. The inside of my home would be just as comfortable, maybe even more so. Almost every room would have white birch flooring and white cabinets complimented by pink appliances. My couch would be white and L-shaped, with the most sleep inducing cushions that have the fruitiest smell. Pink lace curtains trap a peach huge lighting in every room. Pink tiles and frosted thick windows decorate the walls of my bathroom. My room is big, but not confusing. A large cushioned bed with a canopy frame and pink luxurious framed curtains steals the attention immediately. My blankets are soft to the touch and, of course, pink, with amazingly fluffy pillows. My white vanity has perfect gothic details and my mirror is almost as shiny as my white marble tiles. A beautiful pink loose retro inspired silk nightgown hangs in my closet, begging to be worn and loved. My room has a warm lighting, partially due to the mock rose pedal shaped lamps. In the corner of the room, next to the window, is a table with 2 chairs. Perfect for tea parties and window sighting. My dream house is not only inspired by Barbie but also by my dedicated appreciation for pink and femininity. I love all things soft and kind. My dream house is a reflection of my mind and who I aspire to be.

My dad came from Mexico when he was very young. What exact age I’m unsure of but I know he was an elementary boy, young and naive. He doesn’t speak much about his childhood but he has told me stories of working multiple jobs as a young teenager, helping to financially provide for his younger siblings, while also dealing with a new country, a new culture, and a new language- almost a whole new world. My father came to America in the mid-late 60’s, during a time where being Mexicano and speaking Spanish were not accepted. Social separation, ridicule, and beatings were something all too familiar to my dad and my tíos and tias (uncles and aunts). The sudden loss of my grandmother shortly after immigrating to the United States was a blow my fathers family would never recover from. With only one parent and seven siblings, my father would search for any jobs. Many Mexican immigrants were casted out by employers because they were brown and my dad was only one of thousands embarrassed and ridiculed by the culture divide. However, that would not discourage my dad. He was able to find some jobs after relocating to San Antonio, Texas with his family. When he wasn’t in school, he was working and when he wasn’t working, he was in school. He described both as difficult. His high school was terribly underfunded and neglected. He would tell me tales of how the students would bully their principal and how gangs ruled the hallways. When he wasn’t worrying about school, he was balancing jobs and giving every cent to his father. “I would save a dollar or two for myself and use it to buy snacks when I went to the movies. Sometimes, I didn’t have enough [money], so I would sneak into other movies and stay for as long as I could. [The staff] would try to catch me but I was faster.” My father would go on to graduate high school and dive straight into the higher work force. He never pursued an education beyond high school, he was never given the chance to. My father doesn’t talk much about the ridicule, the racism, and the feeling of sounding and looking different than everyone else. I used to despise that he never taught me Spanish. I had to learn the little that I know through songs, TV shows, and translators. But as I grow up and learn, I don’t blame him. I cannot imagine the pain he felt. The angst of never being understood. The feeling of indifference and injustice. My dad grew up to be a very angry and resentful man. Yelling became a third language for him. The only way to get his word across. But through the yelling and screaming, In glimpses, I would see a kind man, a broken man. Sometimes, I would see a boy who just moved to a whole new world, left to survive on his own, far away from home, from Sabinas, Mexico. For many years, I have been very angry at my dad for raising me the way he did. I grew up never knowing so many feelings fathers are supposed to teach. I grew up feeling the anger he once did. And for a moment, when I looked in the mirror, I’d see him. Even now, when we are strained and apart, I feel conflicted. I am so angry and I am so frustrated with him. I begin to cry when I think of that little boy he once was. And I know, I will never be like him.

Its common knowledge children need security and love. But not everyone is so lucky to have that. What I was met with instead is pure chaos and reckon. My parents were both terribly unstable. My father was angry migrant from Mexico, who wasn’t allowed to heal from his mothers death as a child nor be sheltered from the racism he encountered coming to America. As for my mom, well, I haven’t exactly figured her out yet. My mom had not seemed to recover from her own fathers death as well as come to terms with their complicated, abusive relationship. “He was a good man”, my mom would repeat as if she was trying to convince herself of that very concept. Growing up with my parents was not the best. My siblings and I would watch as my parents chased each other in this reckless dance of hurting one another to gain some sense of reassurance. As you can imagine, instability and insecurity are not sustainable grounds for growing children. In my adolescence, I’d could never even begin to fathom the thought of my parents being mentally ill or abusive in some way. But I also never thought a child could know a household different from mine. Of course I knew everyone’s families differ from one another. But children feel left out in every family, right? All kids are ignored and berated by their parents, right? I would only have these little moments of doubt, call it clarity even. These little moments where I’d peek my head out from under the ground and see my harsh reality, unreliable cold parents. But every kid wants to defend their parents no matter how awful they might be. And I did exactly that. We all did, my siblings and I. The day my reality shattered was when I was talking to my brothers, then, fiancé. I was fifteen. At this time, I was angry for the majority of my days and my view of my great wonderful parents had somewhat fallen. I had told her about a dream I had. In this dream, my dad gets frustrated and leaves me in a Burger King booth. He gets in his car and leaves, without saying goodbye or even daring to glance at me. I sit there, alone. I watch the place around me slowly deteriorate as I wait for my dad. I know he’s not going to save me but still, I stop myself from frowning and continue to wait. And when the walls are nearly gone and the ceiling is blown off and the surrounding furniture is no more, I think he is going to show up. But he doesn’t. He not there to give me that sorry excuse of a regretful expression. “Wow you’ve got some major abandonment issues” she tells me. “I guess I do” I say as I look towards the floor. I guess I really do. The following years, I scatter around looking for any sort of outlet. I began doing whatever I could. My siblings and I would become closer than ever because in the end, all we had was each other. Our parents were never gonna be there for us. We would all talk out the issues of our childhoods and our parents “parenting decisions”. We became a support system for one another. Everything became more bearable. When I wasn’t in conversation with my siblings about our shared trauma, I would spend my time looking up various mental health topics. These topics consisted of disorders, habits, types of trauma. I became fascinated. Who knew parts of my life were being studied? I wanted to study more. I’m almost eighteen now. Not much has changed for my parents. Most of my siblings have moved out and saved themselves. I’m not envious, but hopeful. I hope to learn more about my own life, and others, studying mental health and even practicing it by becoming a certified therapist. Mental health, or lack of, has been around me my whole life. And it still surrounds me to this day. It plays a part in my daily routine, like breathing and drinking. I hope to make a living practicing it, as well as becoming mentally stable someday. As for now, im hopeful as can be.