by Tamuira Reid The day Luna went mad her mother thought, finally. The signs had been there, hanging around at the dinner table, in the bathroom where she ironed her hair. It had waited patiently in the corner of a room, under a chair, in the oven with the bread. Now they wouldn't need to…

by Tamuira Reid I get the call in the middle of night. Calls that come in the middle of the night can never be good. And it isn't. It's about Amy, the voice on the other end says. It's a voice I don't know. Someone who calls himself her friend, a friend of the family.…

by Tamuira Reid According to an article written by Therese J. Bouchard for the site, World of Psychology, there are “8 Ways to Help Your Bipolar Loved One Cope”. 1. Educate yourself. “Education is always the starting point. Because until a spouse or daughter or friend of a manic-depressive understands the illness, it is impossible…

by Tamuira Reid Part of being a parent is being prepared for anything. Natural disasters. Snake bites. Broken limbs. Tiny fingers getting slammed into heavy drawers. Occasionally, though, I find myself caught off-guard. That moment when I realize my Survival Guide for Mothers is missing an important chapter. Case in point: Last week. The walk…

by Tamuira Reid My mother loves the ocean. It sings to her, she says. When we lived in Manteca we didn't have an ocean. The only place you could find water was in the swimming pool. She says if it's not singing than it's telling her stories. She says she sees faces in the waves.…

by Tamuira Reid I. I stopped caring about him sometime between January and May, when the weather changed and the leaves came back. He went on that big white pill and couldn't have aged cheese or avocado and I sat at the table in the kitchen, watching him watch me. The yelling wouldn't stop until…

by Tamuira Reid Recently I was interviewed for a college podcast on the craft of writing. I dread this type of thing, mostly because no matter how hard I try to not sound like a complete asshole, I end-up sounding like one. Write about what you know? I guess. Write everyday? I sure don't, but…

by Tamuira Reid I haven't had a drink in nearly a decade. Still think I should've gone out with more style. I chose beer to be my last drink. It was Corona. I remember because I cut my finger slicing the lime. A decade. That's ten whole years. A lot can happen in ten years.…

by Tamuira Reid Go because you're still holding onto the baby weight even though your baby is four. Because you have nowhere else to go today. Because you're not over him. Go because the depression is eating you alive, from the inside out. Go because you forget what happy feels like. (Go because you know…

by Tamuira Reid It’s a hunch. It’s a diagnosis. It’s a long name that leaves you tongue-tied. It’s being horrified over the fact that PDD sounds more like an STD. It’s blaming yourself. It’s blaming his father. It’s blaming God. It’s watching a “normal” kid at the playground and wishing, for a split second, that…

by Tamuira Reid She calls me in the middle of the night. I call her when I know she won't be home. “How many floors are in your building?” “What? Mom, I'm sleeping.” “Tell me how many floors!” “I don't know. Five? Six?” “Okay good. As long as it's not a high rise. You know,…

by Tamuira Reid “The world can't just fucking stop. It's ridiculous. We need to move on from this.” It's a week after the Ferguson ruling and Beverley sits across from me, poking ice cubes in her empty cocktail glass with a straw. I don't like her but I'm trying. There's no one else to talk…

by Tamuira Reid I remember being five years old and sitting in the pediatrician's office as my mother explained the problem. She talks in voices, doctor. Three or four of them at a time. I stand by her door and listen and it is frightening, I tell you. Just frightening. After hours of testing, more…

by Tamuira Reid Sunlight slices through the window, hitting her where she sleeps. Neighborhood kids, already going hard, squeal and play happily somewhere in the distance. I've been sitting on a cedar chest at the foot of her bed, waiting. I know better than to nudge MK to consciousness; she has a nasty right hook…

by Tamuira Reid I like going back to California. I pack my bag days in advance. Organize plane tickets. Make plans with friends to meet at various restaurants. I am going home. Home is where my family is. Mom. Sisters. An eccentric artist father who paints pictures in the woods. The Pacific Ocean full of…

by Tamuira Reid It is not important that you don't know why you cry anymore. That you just do. It is not important or monumental; just a part of your day like anything else. Like driving to the bank or picking up the dry cleaning. It doesn't help to talk about it. To hear words…

by Tamuira Reid “My daddy stays in that building? Not a house?” I'm glad it looks more like an office building and less like a hospital. My son has lived in a city long enough to know what a hospital looks like. This is a slate rectangle, with a line of tinted windows overlooking the…

by Tamuira Reid I don't like writing about depression. Because it's hard to get right in words. Because I sound like an asshole when I try. Because I am too close to it still. Because my memory of what happened feels faulty at best. I remember light streaming through the blinds, big fat rays of…

by Tamuira Reid I'm pregnant. You say the words the same way you say I'm an alcoholic, but this time you aren't sitting in a church basement with a shitty assortment of store-bought cookies on your lap. You hear a small, unmistakable gasp on the other end of the line – “Mom, are you there?”…

by Tamuira Reid I. Theresa He hit her, not the other way around. Thought it was a deer, she told the police. Same kind of thud, thick and heavy. It was raining but not too hard. The impact dented the hood, busted the window, the glass splintered and folded in on itself. Killed a man…