The pages in my library books flip as the frigid winter air whirls all around me. I think of all the reading I need to do when I get home. Home. The word lingers in my mind. Where I am walking to is a home…but just barely one. It has far exceeded the standards of broken. It is shattered like a glass cup that falls to the ground and bursts into a million miniscule pieces on impact. The damage is devastating as the broken glass pieces are scattered everywhere leaving anyone around the damage harmed.

That is where I am, walking home from school to on this chilly overcast day. I see my apartment building, and I feel a rush of relief sweep over me. The ache in my muscles from carrying these books the last mile is becoming increasingly evident… As I walk up the stairs of my apartment building something feels off, and when I open the front door my suspicions are confirmed. The living room is far colder than it should be.

Then, I see it. The door to the terrace is open. I feel the color drain from my face. “No.” I think in complete disbelief. “No. No. She had her issues but she would never…” I see her. The images of attending her funeral rush out of my head. Her thin, pale body lays out on a lawn chair in the cold. I can see her chest faintly moving up and down as she breathes.

“Mom?” I say. Her eyes are closed. No response. “Mom its 39 degrees out here, we should be inside…” I gently set down my school books and take a few steps toward her. My voice softens as I say, “What are you doing?” Her eyes open, and a beautiful smile, one I wish I could see more often, creeps upon her face. She stares directly into my faded blue eyes that match hers and replies, “Tanning.”

There’s a look of confusion plastered on my face. I reach out and touch her arm; her skin is ice cold. I need to get her inside. Concern fills my voice as I say, “Mom…” Suddenly her beautiful smile twists into a distorted frown. Her soft blue eyes suddenly sharpen as she sits up abruptly and yells, “Stop saying my name like that!” I’m all too used to this, so I don’t even flinch. “Like what?” I ask. “You know what I mean.” She growls.

The look of confusion still lingers on my face, and I watch as my mother glares at me as if pondering her next move. She quickly gets up and goes to where my library books are neatly stacked and says, “If you’re so smart,” she gestures to my school books. “Then YOU figure it out!” She begins kicking and scattering my books with more might than you’d expect from a thin, frail woman. “Mom!” I cry out. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I stop myself. I will not cry in front of her. “Like that!” She screams. “Stop saying my name like I’m crazy!”

My mother looks down as if to continue her rampage on my books until she picks one up. She analyzes the title like she’s searching for the meaning behind it. She scanned the title that read, “Schizophrenia: the Cause and Cure”. I watch as her eyes read the rest of the books that are scattered on the terrace floor. They all relate to Schizophrenia. I meet her blue eyes that glare gravely at me. For a minute, I think she’s going to yell, but she simply glances between me and the book in her hand. Then I see it, the familiarity of my mother’s eyes washing over with pent up emotion consisting of mostly anger.

“You…” She cuts a glance between the book and I once more. She clenches her jaw and says quietly, “You think that I’m crazy?” Her sense of calm is short lived as she screams, “I got a diagnosis! What? Do you want me to take pills that do nothing for me?” Her words pierce me and echo in the stale winter air. She slams my book into the stone, cold terrace. “A diagnosis is not the equivalent of the truth!” she screeches as she begins making her way inside. My mother turns around, her eyes still washed over with rage, and says the words that I’ve read and thought about a million times, “Schizophrenia can be genetic, you know. You aren’t any better than me.”

The front door slams, and I reply with words I know she cannot hear, “I know, mom. Believe me, I know.” My legs collapse, bringing me to the ground to collected my scattered books. My mind floods with thoughts. Thoughts of all the things I want to do with my life and everything I want to be. I want to be anything but my mother. I don’t want to spend my days drowsy from the pills I force down my throat to be “normal”, and I don’t want the constant war of voices in my head when I don’t take my pills. That’s her.

“I need an escape.” I think. The idea of escaping lingers in my thoughts as I watch the droplets of water begin plummeting to earth. My eyes trail to the ground below me that is now lightly spotted with rain. My mind suddenly jumps to the father I never knew. My mother never speaks of him. All I know is that he died on 9/11. She’s never actually told me so, but the tears she sheds and the locket with his picture in it that she grasps when we walk past the World Trade Center speaks volumes. I think of the people that jumped. I picture these people faced with the impossible choice of letting the disaster within the building consume them or jumping to save themselves from that version of death.

I glance at my apartment thinking of my mother, and I myself think of jumping to save myself from the disaster that lie within my small, cramped, apartment building. I would play the role of Houdini, and I would escape. And that’s exactly what it would be…the great escape. I stare at the concrete below, now completely soaked with rain, and for a moment I almost think I’ll do it. I hold the railing of the terrace tightly ad imagine how no longer existing must be. Suddenly, a familiar ache fills all the empty parts of me as I remember how I felt whenever I imagined myself at my mother’s funeral.

I imagine my mother finding my limp, lifeless body resting in the rain on the concrete. I think of my mother realizing that she is no longer just the widow of a man that died on 9/11 or a woman with Schizophrenia; she would be the mother who was no longer a mother. Every last part of me that wanted to leave diminishes as I realize that I am all she has left. I am her last reality. She had already lost so much, and was still losing her mind, but she still had a son. I would not allow myself to take that from her.

I push myself of the railing and stumble backwards. I check my watch; I’ve been out here for over an hour.  I picked up my books and walk into the living room to find my mother on the edge of the couch, unmoving, as she usually is after an episode. I then say something that I haven’t said in a long time. Maybe she can’t hear me, but I say it anyway, “I love you, mom.” Her lack of response doesn’t surprise me. I walk into my room and let my mixed emotions fester within me. I’m unsure of how to verbalize anything I’m thinking. I sit and silence for minutes until I hear my mother’s voice outside my bedroom door.

“I’m going to get better, Jonah.” I hear her say the words, but I almost can’t believe it. “I’m going to get help, I promise.” I jump up and run to the door hoping to see the sincerity of her promise, but when I open the door there is nothing.  The hallway is empty. My mother is not outside my door apologizing. My mother is not outside my door making a beautiful promise. My mother is on the couch lost in her mind, and there is nothing. I try to contain the emotions I’ve been holding back, but there I can do to prevent it. I slam the door and find a spiral notebook. There is no hesitation for what I should write, for the words bleed onto the page.

I don’t think; I write. I write and write like it’s the equivalent of breathing. I write because the remedy to this pain cannot be found in any of the contents of a first kit. I write because this is my only remedy. Another hour passes, and I suddenly become aware of how exhausted I am.  The relief from my pain is temporary, but I have found my escape. I set my pencil down and collapsed on my disheveled bed. It was the first time in a long time that I could remember not thinking. I did not think, I drifted slowly into my dreams. Just before completely falling asleep, I hear my bedroom door slowly creaking open. I open my eyes slightly and watch the light from the hallway flood into the widening crack. “I love you too, Jonah.” A voice whispers. Without my glasses, I can only make out the blurred silhouette of my mother. And that alone was enough to allow me to drift into unconsciousness.

-2 years later-

I stand at the podium in the front of the medium sized crowd. The banner above my head reads, “Young Writers’ Competition”. I’ve just been handed a plaque that has the words “Most Inspirational Piece” engraved on it. The event coordinator told me to prepare a speech prior to the results in case I won. I did write a speech. I did win. So here I stand, in front of a crowd of strangers, noticeably shaking because I have never felt so nervous. “Um…” I say looking for the strength to give a speech. I search through the crowd trying to find a familiar face.

I finally find what I’ve been looking for. 3rd row, 8th seat sits my mother smiling at me with a beautiful smile I’ve been seeing more of lately. It’s amazing what 2 years can do for a person. I’m 16 years old and now the winner of a writing competition. My mom, although still thin, looks visibly healthier. I see her smiling directly at me, and I miraculously have the strength to speak. “Hi, my name is Jonah Wayson, and this is a piece about Schizophrenia.” I take a breath and continue. “Most people only see the destruction in mental disorders, but this piece is about seeing the beauty within them.”

I begin reading my piece to a half full auditorium. I sweat nervously when I think of how terribly I’m reading this aloud. I look around the crowd, only to be met with blank stares and complete silence. I finish my piece and prepare for criticism, but in one spontaneous notion the auditorium erupted into applause and cheers.

My eyes lit up, and I searched the crowd for my mother. My eyes met hers, and I felt as if I had caught my breath for the first time since I starting reading. Tears streamed down her face, and I realized what I had forgotten. “I’d like to thank my mother.” The noise from the crowd quickly silenced as I began speaking. “Without her, I would never know true strength and beauty.” My eyes scanned the crowd, and I noticed all of the teenagers in the audience.

I imagined myself two years ago, and decided to go off script. “And to all of you out here in this crowd today who are battling something that you just can’t seem to escape…” I glanced around the crowd once more to see the aforementioned teenagers nodding their heads slightly. “I encourage you to write because sometimes writing isn’t about the story or the words that join together to form sentences. Sometimes writing is about the escape. I mean, after all, writing is the great escape.”