Lessons from the Past
When I was eight years old, my life changed irreversibly—the absolute beginning of trying to find the point and meaning of life itself. My mother moved my brother and I all the way out to Minnesota from Michigan, noticeably without my dad, and we were forced to start a new life: one we had absolutely no expectations for. As the years passed, it all just got weird. My dad would only come out to visit when my mom was out on extravagant, out-of-the-country business trips, and slowly but surely, she spent less and less time at home. Eventually, even when she was home, my brother and I never saw her. It was like we were in our own little world, far away from the one we used to live in.
On one random night, in that Minnesota apartment, mom woke us up in our bedroom—she was positively panicked. She said we had to pack all of our things as fast as we could and “get the hell out of there.” We grabbed minimal clothes and entirely too many toys, and marched with her down to the car. Little did we know we’d be living in it for far much longer than we could have anticipated. That night was the start of the end, and we didn’t even know it yet.
The first few days in her car are the ones I remember most vividly. She was in the driver’s seat, both my brother and I in the back—she would reach her arm around to hold both of our hands, tears in her eyes. “We’re going to be safe now, I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen, to me or to the both of you. Everything is going to be just fine. I love you both so much,” she’d say with tears in her eyes, and her lips pinched into a tight, anxious smile. It became a multiple-times-a-day ritual, her reassuring us that things would be fine and she loved us, that nothing would happen to her. I suppose it could have been reassuring, but something about the look in her eyes, the fear that she was trying to hide—it made us scared, too. Almost every time she held our hands and swore, we’d cry along with her, not quite understanding what it was that was happening.
After an unknown amount of time spent in mom’s little Lincoln sedan, we ended up in the driveway of a house I had never seen before. It was small, but honestly darling: a one-floor, white house with lots of windows, sitting in the middle of a 1-acre yard. There were trees everywhere, and a nice little old lady at the front door, seemingly waiting for us. Mom told us to grab our stuff and follow her to the door, and dutifully we listened. When we made it inside, the tea was spilled: that sweet-looking old lady was apparently our Grandma—and dad, surprisingly, was in there with her. Mom said we were going to be staying there for a while, and all I could think was finally! Dad’s back! The family is officially back together.
When we moved our stuff inside, mom had us all move into one bedroom in the house—she didn’t feel too comfortable having us far away, even if the distance was that of another room or a floor. It was a small bedroom, and we all shared the full-sized bed that was inside. All of our stuff was strewn around the floors taking up a bunch of room. Mom said we wouldn’t be here long, so there was no need to worry about it—no need to put away what we’d be packing up and moving in just a short period of time.
One of the first nights we were there, my Aunt Kk, who I didn’t remember at all, came over with pizza to hang out and meet us kids. She was really sweet, funny, and happened to be a teacher. I remember her offering to help get us into school nearby, but my mom didn’t appreciate it—just like the pizza. She had a hands-off-I’ll-do-it-myself mentality. She made sure to pull us aside to let us know not to eat too much of the pizza, cuz mom didn’t buy it, and to not get too friendly with Aunt Kk—she didn’t really know her, so how could she trust her.
As time went on at Grandma’s house, mom started getting strange. She wouldn’t let me or my brother leave the cramped bedroom, even for food, and encouraged us—no, almost forced us—to wreak havoc on the household. She started to convince us that my dad and Grandma were evil, that they wanted to hurt us and already had hurt her. The only way to be safe was to stay in the bedroom so she could protect us, and only leave the room to ruin Grandma’s things or secretively steal her food—it was a manner of self-defense.
“Alright, kids. Remember what I’ve been telling you? We can’t trust your father or his mother. They’ve been trying to hurt us and get us out of here ever since we got here. They don’t want you to eat, they’ve got limits on the food, and every time we turn our backs they’re watching us—zapping us. We’ve all seen them through the crack in the door when it’s time for bed, spying. We can’t trust them at all. So, be sneaky, grab the bread and peanut butter from the cupboard. I’ve got some sharpies—draw on Grandma’s door with them, break some of her things if you want to. They have to know that we’re onto them and we’ll do what it takes to protect ourselves.”
Mom even got her sister, a government worker, involved. She told her that dad and Grandma were hurting us, that we weren’t safe, and that we didn’t even have access to food. She said that the two of them would stalk us at night, making us feel scared and unsafe. I don’t remember dad or Grandma ever actually doing anything to us, but mom was convinced it was happening and that they were evil. CPS even came to take us away to keep us safe.
From the CPS incident on, we lived with my mom’s sister, Aunt Sandi, or, minimally, on our own in an apartment. We started at Aunt Sandi’s, but within a couple months we moved into our own apartment not too far away. It only took a handful of months to lose that apartment, like the one in Minnesota—and when that happened, we went right back to Aunt Sandi’s. Then, once again, a few months later, we got another apartment on our own—and lost it again within a couple months, and went back to Aunt Sandi’s.
When we were in Aunt Sandi’s house, mom had the similar habit of keeping all three of us cooped up in one room, refusing to let us wander the house alone unless it was to go through the front door to play outside. In our own apartment(s), she resumed her lifestyle from Minnesota, staying in her room all the time and leaving my brother and I to fend for ourselves. Only this time around, there was no furniture, no food, nothing to do: when in our own apartment, it was completely empty—save for our own personal belongings, the ones we had brought all the way from the first move from Minnesota.
Through the whole back-and-forth living situation, mom became all the more paranoid and fearful of the outside world. She had convinced my brother and I that no one was to be trusted, even more intensely than at my dad’s and Grandma’s. “Did you know people have the power to zap you? They can hurt you without even showing it’ll happen! It’s happened to me; your father would do it. It’s something about the hands, I’ve learned how. So don’t piss me off, or I can zap you too.” She told us that even our minds weren’t our own, that there were unseen influences and listeners at all times. “The police have microchipped our brains to listen to our conversations and thoughts, but if something bad happens, they might be able to help us because of it—you never know when it can come in handy, that’s why I had them do it for you kids.”
Soon enough, all of her paranoia and fear found a sort of release with me. She’d began blaming me for how our life had turned out, that if I had never been born it would all be fine. She said I was too much like my dad to be of any real use, and that I should just up and die already.
She had begun to scare me. It all started coming to a head when I was about twelve. Four years from the initial Big Change, and all of a sudden, things were changing again. I started to feel things, horrifying things, that I had never felt before. I was sad, all the time, and just wanted to be anywhere else but with my mom—no matter the cost. I began daydreaming of ways to make it out of there, even if it was just by myself. Parts of myself I didn’t even know you could lose started slipping away, until suddenly, I was a shell of the kid I used to be.
I used to play with my brother outside, ride our bikes and explore the woods together. I would become obsessed with new music and find new idols (namely, Justin Bieber) and try to even write my own songs. I dreamt of becoming a singer one day, and would practice outside under the trees. Eventually, all of the things I loved doing I couldn’t do anymore. I adventured outside alone now—as an escape rather than for fun. I would write songs about a better life and happiness rather than just innocent love songs. I no longer dreamt of becoming a singer—I dreamt of having a normal life instead, perhaps even with parents that actually loved me. My tools for fun and childlike joy slowly shifted into mechanisms for my survival.
Mental health is something many of us struggle with, in varying ways, throughout our entire lives. I didn’t even know “mental health,” or things like depression and anxiety, even existed until I was about eleven or twelve. Even so, sure enough, I had my first attempt around that age. I just wanted to do anything to get out of that hell on earth, and didn’t know what else I could possibly do.
I was chastised and punished for the attempt, so I didn’t think of trying again until much later. Besides, I was just a kid—I didn’t even know how to do it, I just knew that I wanted to.
Ever since the first attempt, I was cognizant of the fact that something was wrong, that I felt off in a way that I never used to: doing things I used to love didn’t appeal to me anymore; I was scared to talk to people or spend too much time outside; I was sad and cried all the time, and worried about everything I said or did; even making trips to the market for candy felt like a ridiculously insurmountable obstacle, like something I wasn’t supposed to be doing.
Until I was a teenager, I didn’t know I was depressed or anxious, but that’s what it was. It began haunting me, and everything I did, until all of a sudden it encompassed me wholly. There seemed to be absolutely no escaping it, no matter what I would do to try and stop it.
My dad had gone to college. The University of Michigan, actually. Technically, so did my mom, but that was never really a motivator for me. Dad absolutely loved going to UM—he said he learned, lived, and thrived there, even started to become himself while attending. He had so much pride for the school, and what he accomplished: he wore a UM baseball hat everywhere we went, and practically his full wardrobe was exclusively UM merch.
He had finished school at UM right around when I was born. To be honest, I haven’t heard all too much about his time in college, as this is a time he struggled in, too. I lost my mom, and he lost his wife—from he sounds of it, it started earlier than when I had seen it, too. She abused him longer than I. No wonder he doesn’t talk about it or even like to think about that time in his life.
Regardless of all the shit that happened, he loved UM and his time there. He still looks back on that school with intense pride, and wanted me to go there ever since I was little. I would run around our old house in Grand Blanc wearing his much-too-large-for-me Michigan sweatshirt. I’d always be stealing those sweatshirts, but he didn’t seem to mind too much.
Once I finally reached an age to start thinking about college, UM was where I wanted to go. I knew Harvard was out of my reach, especially with my background (I’m not a rich kid with affluent parents, and I never had the opportunity to grow my extracurricular portfolio); but who needed Harvard when there was UM right at my fingertips? If I were more confident, I maybe would have applied to Harvard, just for shits and giggles. But I was already nervous about UM. It was a prestigious school, requiring good grades and extracurriculars—every year that passes, it becomes more and more Ivy-adjacent of an institution. Besides, my dad went there, and absolutely loved it. He figured shit out there, found himself, and that’s really all anyone could ask for… Other than a Grade-A education, I guess.
When I was an upperclassman in high school, I finally started making the plans to apply for UM. I had been taking all of the upper-level classes since middle school, got really good grades, and began practicing for the SAT. I figured, if anywhere, UM would be the place where I would find where I belong and who I was meant to be. After everything, it felt like a shining light to rely on in the distance, a place where I would be saved.
Soon after mom started to really go nuts, I began trying to make a real plan to get out of it all. It became a daily occurrence of her getting mad at me for really just existing: reminding her of my dad, playing too loudly or closely, getting too involved with Aunt Sandi and her family, making a habit of spending time in the living room, or eating food—God forbid.
Screaming matches between the two of us became rather common. She would say she wished I was never born, that she hated me, that the day I came into the world her life continued to devolve, and of course, why couldn’t I just be a good daughter and help make her life easier (hint: by not being around anymore).
I didn’t know what she wanted, and I got the feeling there was no true way I could make her happy. So, I started figuring out how to make her life better one of the only ways I knew how: just disappear so she never had to deal with me again.
I got my dad’s email from my Aunt Sandi and made a plan to send him a message from their living room computer. If he sees this, he’ll know to come and get me, and then it can all just be over. I knew I couldn’t take being with mom much longer anyway, and this seemed like the best possible solution, for everyone.
I sent the email, and then anxiously awaited his answer.
A few screaming matches later, I finally got a reply: “I’m going to come and get you ASAP. I’ll coordinate with your Aunt Sandi to find a way to do it best, and you’ll come home with me. Everything is going to be fine. I love you.”
Within a week, I had snuck out of the house with my Aunt’s help. She had my cousin take me to a nearby McDonald’s to wait for my dad, and he showed up and took me home. I never had to see my mom ever again.
Even after moving in with my dad and Grandma, permanently, things didn’t get much better for me—at least mentally. Sure, I didn’t have to worry about my mom anymore, but the wounds she had inflicted on my spirit persisted.
I struggled with my view of myself, and worried that if she didn’t see any value in me, no one else would either. If one parent just straight-up didn’t like me, and thought everything I did was wrong, what was stopping the other one from seeing and thinking the same things? I wanted to try my best to be the greatest daughter I could be for my dad. I couldn’t handle any more disappointment and malice.
But even as I tried to become the quote-unquote perfect daughter in the eyes of my dad, my true personality would peak through every now and again. I liked stupid jokes, getting dirty and reckless outside, reading about the world and escaping into distant worlds of magic, feeling the very depths of my soul with the help of music, and the far-away idea of love: my dad would see these qualities creeping through, and would showcase his disappointment in me.
“You don’t need to be outside playing like a boy—you’re a lady and should act as such, why don’t you go draw or ride your bike and not get yourself hurt in the mud or trees? I know that music is what everyone else is listening to, and those books are what everyone else is reading, but it’s not good for your soul. Try listening or reading the classics! Once you’re older, you’ll understand, but for now you’ll just have to trust me. I don’t want you getting mixed up with boys, even just as friends—they want more than you can give them, so be careful.”
Dad didn’t like who I was becoming, and I did try to push it all down and do the right thing. But, no matter how hard I tried, those true parts of myself kept poking through. Eventually, I couldn’t handle dad’s disappointment or judgement anymore—it felt like things I couldn’t really change, or that something was wrong with me. I did something I bet many kids do when they feel that distance with a parent: I became exactly who he wanted me to be at home, and then became more of myself when I was away at school. This way, both of us could be happy.
My first couple of relationships my dad never knew about. He would have grounded me, or worse—I’m not really sure what the alternative would be, but I absolutely knew it would be bad. But I was 15, why not be able to try and find love? I hadn’t really felt it since I was a kid, and boy, did I want to feel it again.
The first real boyfriend I had was, honestly, an asshole. He pushed me into being way more sexual than I was ready for, but I always ended up agreeing. He made me feel special, and I didn’t want to lose the potential for love just by being a prude. After about a year-and-a-half, he ended up breaking up with me anyway. I wasn’t sexual enough—but that’s fine, he had started to bully me and treat me like a science experiment anyway. His loss!
My second boyfriend was, somehow, worse. He lured me in by being sweet and treating me like a princess. He invited me to family dinners, and his parents seemed to love me. He would get me flowers just because and would take me out on real dates, like the movies. Then the inevitable happened: he wanted me to be sexual with him. Of course, I was willing: I’d rather do that than lose, once again, the potential for love. It had been so long since I felt special and worth it—anything felt like a good price to feel like that again.
Only a few months after we had started dating, he raped me. I didn’t understand at the time that that’s what had happened, but I know now. He was hurting me and I wanted him to stop but no matter how many times I cried out, he never did. He held me down. Maybe he didn’t think I meant it, I’m not sure. But after that, I withdrew from him a bit. It made me feel gross, unclean, and like some sort of evil had latched onto me. A few months after that, he broke up with me on a date we had planned for my birthday: right there, on the beach. It was really a blessing, but it didn’t feel like it then. I was just so desperate for that someone who would understand me and love me, no matter what: that unconditional stuff you see in the movies.
Then, a few months after my seventeenth birthday, I met Greg. My friends and I had made plans to go to a football game, and picked him up along the way. I had never met him before, but I swore it was love at first sight. He was cute, sweet, funny, a little shy—and he seemed to like me, too.
We flirted back and forth for the whole football game, and exchanged Facebook information afterwards. When we got back home, we texted for hours. I sent him pictures from my homecoming dance, he told me how pretty I was, and soon enough we were dating. He was even sicklier-sweet than the last guy. He would randomly show up at my house and leave flowers and candy, would text me all through the day to tell me what a catch I was, and wanted to take me on a date every week—sometimes multiple times a week.
Our relationship was incredibly toxic—but once again, I didn’t really know it. He would break up with me randomly for being too clingy, or just for us being “incompatible,” and less than a week later we’d be back together. This probably happened at least five times, each time ending with us back together. Eventually, it calmed down when I graduated and was getting ready to head to college. We made plans for visits when I would be on-campus in my dorm, and how we could handle long-distance.
My first year at UM (wooooooo, I got in!), Greg would come up to see me every week, if he could. He’d spend the weekend with me in my dorm room, and we’d go on little dates in downtown Ann Arbor. When he wasn’t there with me, he had gotten into the habit of having me stream my dorm room to him over Skype, “so he could be with me even when he wasn’t.” I didn’t see that as any sort of red flag at the time—I just thought he loved me.
That winter, he proposed to me in the corner of the diag with a $99 ring—of course, I said yes. He made me feel special and loved. Even when he’d scream at me and say I was the worst, he’d always come back and put the pieces back together. It felt like he saw me for me.
Winter semester passed, and then COVID hit. Everyone was kicked out of the dorms and school was sent online. I felt I couldn’t go back home and potentially introduce my family to the disease, so I moved in with Greg. Looking back, it was really just an excuse for me to take the relationship further: I had this ring on my finger, so why not?
I moved in, slept in his bed, got to know all of his friends and his roommate. I managed to do school from home. Over the next year or so, I continued my schooling online, we had moved into our own apartment, I got a cat, and it seemed like everything was going perfectly. We did have our problems every once in a while, but he would always return to that guy I had fallen in love with.
Before the Fall semester of 2021, UM made it official that there wouldn’t be many options for hybrid/remote classes—they were returning fully to in-person. I told Greg all about it, but he said he didn’t want to move out there with me: “I’ve been at this restaurant for a while now, and don’t want to lose the opportunity to move up someday. I can’t move out there.” Because we had our own apartment, I couldn’t pay for my half of the rent and a dorm in Ann Arbor—so I began commuting to-and-from school, Kalamazoo to Ann Arbor, every single day.
The commute, my schoolwork, and responsibilities at home continued to pile up and become difficult to manage. I was exhausted every day, my brain absolutely shot—but I would still do the dishes, clean the floors, go grocery shopping, make dinner, and get all my homework done by the time the day was over. If I didn’t make sure to do it all, Greg would be livid with me. The few times I let some things slip, he called me ungrateful, lazy, and stupid: didn’t I know he had a full-time job with responsibilities, and couldn’t handle the stuff at home on top of his work?
As that semester wore on, I kept getting sick. I powered through—I couldn’t afford to miss any classes, or fall behind at home. I just had to get it all done. I’d allow myself one “sick” day on the weekend, a day to rest more than usual, but my body knew that wasn’t enough. Right as the exam season ended and I entered Winter break, my body finally broke down and got extremely sick. I couldn’t even get out of bed. After a week of no improvement (and in all honesty, feeling much, much worse), I finally decided to take myself to Urgent Care. They’d give me some antibiotics or something and help me get back to being myself.
After feeling deathly ill, I drove myself to the nearest Urgent Care hoping for the usual get-better meds, and to be sent on my way—I was going to be better within a week. What actually ended up happening was: I went into the Urgent Care and shared my symptoms; they did a litany of blood tests to see what was going on in order to give me the right meds; they kept coming back to re-do the blood tests; then the doctor came back in and said that something was wrong, and I’d have to be sent by a friggin ambulance to the closest ER.
“Ummm, why can’t I just drive myself? I feel fine enough for that!”
“I understand that, miss. But let me explain what’s going on in your blood again in a different way—hopefully this will help it make sense: your platelets are some of the lowest I’ve ever seen. Your platelets help to coagulate blood after an injury so you don’t just keep bleeding. If you were to trip and fall, or even get a scratch, your platelet level is so low you could bleed out.”
“Oh… I guess that makes sense.”
“We’ll get the ambulance here as soon as possible and they’ll get you over there safely, I promise. When you get there, remember to tell them: ‘my platelets are extremely low, and my white blood cells are extremely high.’ They’ll be able to better help figure out what’s going on.”
I have a feeling that doc already knew. Before he left, he hugged me and said: “You’ve got this, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine and be able to go back to school. I know it!”
While getting loaded into the ambulance, I made sure to text Greg and my aunt. Greg said he was at work, so he couldn’t leave—but let him know what’s going on and if I’m still there he’ll try and make it after work. My aunt, on the other hand, was on her way immediately.
She sat in the waiting room with me at the hospital and held my hand. I was scared and didn’t know what was going on. Was I going to die? I have no idea. I made a joke to my aunt: “wouldn’t it be funny if it was cancer or something crazy like that? What would be the odds??” I giggled a little, and my aunt did, too—but there was a fear that flashed through her eyes. I tried to think nothing of it.
All night she sat with me, while they performed all sorts of tests. They redid all of the blood labs they did at Urgent Care, then did them again. Then we were told we were waiting for a room to open up for us to stay in overnight while they figured it out. While a nurse came in to give us an update on the room, she accidentally let it slip that they think I have leukemia. I asked my aunt what the hell that is, and she said not to worry about it for now—and don’t go googling stuff.
In a couple hours, I made it into a room upstairs, and we finally got to talk to a doctor.
“Alright, Mary. We’ve done quite a few tests, as you know. We’re going to have to conduct a few more to know for sure, but we’re thinking you might have something called Acute Myeloid Leukemia—it’s a cancer within the bone marrow. Within the next day, as soon as we possibly can, we’re going to pursue a bone marrow biopsy so we can test the marrow to make sure. If our thoughts are correct, we’re going to have to transfer you to another hospital. We contacted Bronson Methodist and University of Michigan’s Mott, both of which have openings for you right now—consider which you’d rather go to and we’ll send you there.”
I was so incredibly excited to get the letter in the mail that I had gotten accepted into the University of Michigan. I remember my stomach dropping into my feet, convinced it was going to be a rejection letter. With shaky fingertips, I slid open the top of the packet and there was the word I needed to see: “Congratulations!” I had gotten accepted into the Fall 2019 cohort, on a full scholarship no less. In that moment it felt like my life was changing for the better, and I finally had a chance to make something of myself, to find out who I was meant to be.
That summer consisted of a bunch of planning for the coming semester: I filled out an application for an on-campus dorm; I went out to get furnishings with my Aunt Neecie for my future dorm; I began packing my things to take with me; I started making big plans for what the next four years were going to look like.
Just as soon as I had everything squared away and figured out, my orientation week began. I slept in a room with three other girls, none of which I ended up making friends with, and immediately felt like a small fish in an infinitely large pond. The campus was gigantic and I had no idea where anything was. Everything worked differently than in high school. There were buses that made trips throughout campus since the area was too large to solely walk, humungous cafeterias out of the movies, with anything you could possibly want to eat or drink. The entirety of the week was a small introduction to how to live life on campus as a new student: how to find things you needed, where to go for laundry and how to pay for it, where you could shop, where you could eat, campus expectations and culture. I’d never seen anything like it, but I had the feeling I would love it here.
Shortly after the week ended, I got notification of a dorm room confirmation: I would be staying in a single dorm in East Quad, just a short walk from the central campus Diag. My room was going to be small, but I could decorate it exactly how I wanted, with no worry about judgement from a person I didn’t know. Not to mention, just a short walk away from a bathroom and showers. The building even had a Starbucks, a courtyard, and plenty of study spaces, printers, living rooms, a game room, a big cafeteria, and lots of laundry areas—I was going to be set.
All of a sudden, my college career was starting, and my family was helping to bring my things from Portage, MI all the way to Ann Arbor. Overnight, it felt like I had suddenly morphed into some type of adult—everything was my responsibility and it felt amazing. As soon as I settled into my space, I was making big plans for my time here: I was going to take a bunch of psychology classes (after the required coursework, of course), some writing courses (I’ve always loved to write), I was going to make a bunch of friends and find my group of people, I’d have a bunch of fun out on the town while taking care to study and be responsible. I was going to have it all, and I was so ready for it. I couldn’t wait to grow into myself with everyone else there, and figure all of this life shit out.
At first, I wasn’t even that worried that I was a hundred miles away from my boyfriend. I was going to have so much to do and discover, I had the feeling I was going to be just fine. That lasted about a week into my being there before things started to become a problem.
Almost as soon as I got to UM, Greg began getting clingy. Before I even left, he had convinced me it wasn’t really a big deal that I was leaving—he would be busy too, but there’d be time to see each other. In reality, it seemed he wasn’t that busy, at least compared to me—he had plenty of time to be worrying about what I was doing. I’d be away at class all day, diligently taking notes and doing homework, and he began to get frustrated at my lack of answering texts. It didn’t seem to matter I was busy. Soon enough, he was getting passive aggressive about not being close by anymore, and I did miss him—so we began making plans for his first visit to the campus.
That visit came and went and it was fine: but he made sure to complain about virtually everything. He didn’t like my room, my bed was too small, he didn’t feel like he belonged on-campus and felt people were “judging” him, so when he was there we didn’t really leave the room. I had missed him, though, and felt happier after seeing him. Once he left to go back home, we had made a plan to start Skyping so we could feel a little closer to each other in-between visits. I was thrilled with the idea—he had always hated calling or videoing before.
The every-once-in-a-while Skypes quickly morphed into a 24/7 video call. He said he wanted to feel like he was with me and make sure I was doing okay. He was there (or at least the camera was on me) all day, all night: while doing homework, while studying, while watching things on my phone, while sleeping, while I was at class. It was always going. At first it felt endearing, a way to stay close while he was away. But close to midterm season, it started going awry. I’d be studying for upcoming exams (which I had explicitly told him about) and he’d continue to interrupt and distract me with “how are you”s, “I miss you”s, and “hey, check this out”s. I couldn’t really get anything done, but I didn’t want to make him mad by turning off the camera. I pushed through and managed to get mediocre grades during the first term. Not bad, but not as good as I’d hoped either.
I came back to my dorm after winter break, and life resumed as normal: Winter 2020, now. Greg still lived in my computer screen in-between visits, and I had slowly become consumed by it all. I hadn’t made any friends outside of him—he made it very clear he was worried I’d cheat or make bad choices, and I didn’t want the lectures—and I did the bare necessities of exiting my room. Go to class, get anything I needed for home, come back, get food, do laundry, do homework, all inside my dorm building or my room.
During his next visit, we had made plans to go out and actually have some fun. We got reservations at a fancy restaurant on State St.—good food, but absolutely no conversation. He didn’t like to go out to eat, especially at a nice place. We got Ben and Jerry’s ice cream for dessert and walked around the Diag, it felt nice, and like there was a distant promise of romance, but it never came. It just felt like anxiety, waiting for something to happen. We sat on the benches in front of the Hatcher Library for a while, talking about nothing and enjoying the crisp winter air. As we smiled awkwardly at each other, a stranger with alcohol on his breath and dried blood on his knees made an appearance. He whispered disgusting things in my ear, made inappropriate suggestions while Greg just sat and watched. I kept waiting for him to do something, but I was the only one to speak up—which made the stranger threaten to beat Greg’s head in to the ground. After a discreet call to the police, the stranger was on his way leaving us anxious and cautious—the police never found him. On our quiet walk back to my dorm, we were just about to exit the Diag when Greg dragged me into a corner by a blue call box and a lamppost, got down on a knee, and proposed with a pretty, but cheap, ring. Some frat guys walking down the sidewalk hooted and hollered at us, and I said yes—we went back mildly happier than when we had left.
Later that semester, the COVID pandemic hit full blast. We were all kicked out of our dorms and asked to go home while classes were abruptly thrown online. I took the pandemic as an excuse to be a grown-up and move in with Greg at his apartment. Summer hit and things weren’t so bad. I did all the house chores and shopping because Greg had a job, and waited for school to start back up again. Once it did, everything was still stuck online—and it was like that for almost a year. While school was remote, I got everything done at the apartment: cooking, cleaning, shopping, and my own decompression routines. We even moved into our own shitty apartment in Kalamazoo. We got notification that UM would be returning to in-person and some hybrid class structures for Fall of 2021—right after we had signed a lease for our apartment. I had officially lost my opportunity to return to a dorm, and my only option was to commute back and forth to my classes.
I drove four hours every day, and had class for about six hours daily, Monday-Friday. Even though school was more like a packed full-time job now, I still got all of the housework done. Every day, I would cook, clean, do my homework, study, shop, and take care of my cat. During this semester, Greg started getting really mean. No matter what I did do it wasn’t enough, or I wasn’t doing it well enough. He’d say “I don’t get why you’re so tired, it’s just school. It’s not like you’re working and making us any money. I’ve got to bust my ass all day, I’m not gonna be doing any house shit when I get home. That’s very much your job.”; “I know you’re sooooo busy, but we’ve talked about keeping the house tidy and making sure we have things to eat. Get it done, it’s not that hard.”; “Get your cat to shut the fuck up, it’s been a long day and I don’t want to deal with it. Sometimes I come so close to killing his ass it’s not even funny.”
During my commuting days, he began never wanting to spend time with me anymore. He stayed late at work, but would be upset if I went to sleep without him—I started getting less and less sleep just to keep the peace. The only time he wanted to talk to me was when I was doing something: studying, getting homework done, or something for myself like reading or journaling. He’d interrupt with meaningless shit until I couldn’t get anything done but just stop and sit there while he was doing his own thing. Once I’d stop, he’d get quiet and return to his game. He didn’t even really like cuddling or being close to me anymore—I was too clingy and too emotional, too full of drama to want to be near me. I was worn out, and kept getting sick. Even so, I couldn’t handle missing any school or falling behind on chores—I pushed through and shoved all the colds down.
I got my semester finished, all my exams turned in and grades returned, and fell into the absolute worst flu of my life. I honestly feared I was going to die. I was nauseous, light-headed and weak—I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom or to the fridge for water without fearing I would fall over and pass out. It got to a point where I was just lying in bed all day, my head splitting, my limbs heavy, unable to really talk or even breathe that well.
Greg was convinced I was overreacting and just being dramatic: “well I’ve never had a cold like that. I don’t really understand why you’re acting like this. I hope it’s over soon, cuz the place is turning into a mess.”
While he was at work one day, I dragged myself into my car and took myself to the nearest Urgent Care. I needed some help—whatever this shit was, it had been a week and it wasn’t going away. Winter break was going to be over soon, and I needed time to get the house back in order before returning to everyday commutes and schoolwork.
The Urgent Care trip turned into an ambulance ride to the ER, and an unexpected stay at the Borgess hospital—and then the Bronson hospital. It was never a cold, or even a flu, or COVID: I had cancer, and I had almost died.
When I had gotten officially transferred to the pediatric unit at Bronson, it was a couple of days before Christmas. And I had cancer. Grreeeeaaaaat. All I could help but think was are you serious?? I just had to make a joke about getting cancer and now it’s happened. I can’t go back to school for God knows how long, I can’t go home for God knows how long and it’s about to be Christmas. Merry Christmas to me. Just my fucking luck.
I had to file a temporary leave of absence with the University. Thankfully, everyone was extremely understanding, but I couldn’t help but be worried that this was the end. What if I had made it halfway through my degree for absolutely nothing? I still haven’t made any friends at school, or figured out what I was supposed to do—I can’t be done yet! Instead, I had to actively worry about not dying rather than normal, almost-adult stuff. What. The. Fuck. And right before Christmas?? My condition (and the COVID precautions at the hospital) make it so that I can only have two accepted visitors on the list. What kind of Christmas is that??
Because of the visitor list, I only had Greg and one of my aunts approved—they both lived by me and I figured they’d be able to show up more often than anyone else. My parents lived in Chicago, so I couldn’t have them on the list. Only two. I was right about half of my list: my Aunt Kk was there almost every single day with me for as much of the day as she could. We’d watch TV together, complain, chat about stupid things we saw online. She’d bring me food and milkshakes—specifically strawberry—and would help comfort me when I got scared or filled with pain. She was my absolute safe space. I could talk to her about anything and everything I wanted, as much or as little as I pleased. She encouraged me to start journaling regularly again—not only to help me remember things as treatment started to kick in, but also just to help process it all.
Getting cancer was the culmination of all my worst nightmares, and the hardest feelings I’ve ever had to deal with. As treatment wore on, I watched my body change in ways I never could have expected. I began losing my hair—everywhere—and I was so weak I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom that was in my hospital room without help. Eventually, I needed a commode by my bed so I could reliably make it when I had to go. My body would break out into rashes and dried, alien skin. When I looked in the mirror, at a certain point I couldn’t even recognize who was looking back at me. It felt like I was losing myself and all of the dreams I had built up suddenly, and yet achingly slow. All at once, and minimally—each new symptom and ache of bodily pain pointing toward a hope I could never accomplish anymore.
Even my brain, which I had put so much work into over the years, was failing me. I couldn’t remember basic words I used to use all the time, whether in writing or in conversation. Sometimes my sentences wouldn’t make sense, and anything explicitly logical or physically exertive didn’t make sense anymore. I couldn’t do it. If I were to have somehow continued with school through all of this, I would have been kicked out—I would have failed. And that realization made me afraid I might never be able to go back.
Through my life I had already heavily struggled with my body image, with anxiety, and depression—but all three had reached an all-time high while in the hospital. Even my breaks at home every month or so didn’t give me any solace. I was still in my sickly body and regressed mind, even if I was doing well enough to have a week at home. I was worried and sad all the time. Each day, I feared a new infection or a new sickness would take over my body and keep me in the hospital for even longer stretches of time, making me have to wait months to even see my cat or my own bed for just a few days. I was worried all of this treatment and pain would be for nothing and I’d end up dying anyway. I was worried my boyfriend would leave me. I didn’t feel pretty anymore, and I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without a struggle, let alone do any chores. What if he left me because I wasn’t like I used to be, and couldn’t do what I used to do? Everything was changing, constantly, and I felt I couldn’t even write well anymore. I was hopeless, and it seemed everything was slipping away, or at least had the ability to slip away at any point.
There was a psychologist and a social worker that came to see me a few times a week. But I couldn’t even really talk to them, at first. How could they possibly understand how I was feeling. They weren’t in this bed with me. They weren’t undergoing chemo, or getting port surgery to have a direct line for medications, or watching their body and mind change before their eyes. Besides, part of me felt dramatic and weird for even feeling so bad about it all. It’s just cancer, I’m probably being an overreacting bitch. Other people have it worse, there’s literal children in here dealing with this. I probably will be able to go back to school, and everything will be just fine. It isn’t the end of the world, quit acting like it.
Eventually, though, I let the social worker in. Julie is her name. She was incredible, and ended up being one of my best friends (along with all of my nurses—they adored me and I adored them). She talked to me about normal life stuff, would let me rant, vent, and complain, and would help me advocate for myself to the doctors and medical staff. She made the experience as comfortable and home-like as it could have been. She helped to change my life, both in the hospital and out, for the better.
Julie understood when I was scared, or sad, and had ways to help me make it better. She also encouraged me to journal—even got me a few new ones—and would talk about my favorite shows with me, would do crafts and art with me, and would just sit with me while I cried if I needed it. She was also one of the only ones to respect my sleep when I needed it. I didn’t have to worry about her interrupting a well-needed nap: she knew how much I loved my sleep and how little I was getting. If I was sleeping when she showed up, she’d just leave a little note, sometimes even a treat, and come back to see me the next day.
Julie encouraged me to keep dreaming big, even—no, especially—during such a circumstance. It would help me fight. Julie told me that all of my feelings, no matter how seemingly ridiculous, were important and worth talking about, worth processing. She told me I was smart and could still do anything I wanted to do, and that my words were special—I needed to keep writing. She was my hero, and I couldn’t have done any of it without her.
Things got worse with Greg during my treatment. When I did have the opportunity to be at home, he’d stay even later and later at work, leaving me exhausted, hungry, and lonely waiting for him. When he did come home, he just wanted to play his games and relax, and didn’t really want to cuddle or do anything with me. I just was kind of… there. I started to feel even lonelier at home than at the hospital. At least at Bronson, I had my friends, people to talk to all throughout the day, things to do without feeling guilty about it.
At home, Greg began to resent me because I couldn’t do anything around the house. He was quicker to snap at me for smaller things, and made me feel guilty for wanting to spend any time at all with him. While at the hospital, he’d make plans to come and see me and then flake, citing that it was too late and he didn’t want to walk all the way through the emergency department and the rest of the hospital to get to me after hours— “he’d just come by tomorrow or another time.” He began making plans with his friends when he was supposed to be visiting me, and visits at all began to be further and further apart, and more strained when he was there. He said being in the hospital made him uncomfortable, and there was nothing to do. Eventually, he’d just sit by my bed, silently on his phone, and then leave in an hour or two.
From January to April, I saw him exponentially less, whether I was at home or in the hospital. He began answering my texts more sporadically, too, and seemed to get annoyed when I just wanted to talk and know how his day had been. My nurses, my family, and Julie all hated him for what he was doing and how he was treating me as time wore on, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty and like I had caused it. If only I hadn’t been stupid and went and got cancer, and everything would be fine—of course he resents me.
But then came the nagging suspicion that something was going on. He never came to see me anymore, and I could barely get a couple of words from him over text. He never seemed to be home when I was, and almost seemed to purposefully wait until I was half-asleep before walking in the door. I had the feeling he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to, so I did what any completely sane girl would: I created fake Tinder and Bumble accounts to see if he was on there.
After a few days of searching and swiping “no” on a bunch of people, I saw a profile that made my heart sink. “Greg, 24: looking for a girl I can simp for and treat like a queen,” all with new pictures with his freshly-dyed hair. My heart was beating out of my chest. The profile even said he was looking for marriage and to have a kid… while I was sitting here alone with his ring on my finger. All I did was send him a text saying he needed to show up in the next few days so we could talk.
I did tell my nurses and Julie allllllll about it. They said they knew he was a C-DIFF weasel, and deserved so much better. But something inside me, even now, was convinced I could never find someone else to love me. Maybe this was the best I could do, and was what I deserved. I mean, he did love me. Right?
While I waited for Greg to answer and make a plan to come and talk, I gave my aunt the key to my apartment and had her go get my darling cat, and anything important of mine out of the apartment. For some reason, I was thoroughly convinced that if he knew I knew what he was doing, and tried to end things with him, he would kill my boy and destroy all my shit. My aunt understood, and rescued him immediately. Apparently, my little fuzzy man went right to her, and left—no fight or coaxing necessary. It made me wonder how life had been for him while I wasn’t there.
The day he came to talk, I was all prepared to lay everything I’d found on the table and break it all off with him. Somehow, he had convinced me that the profiles were just for finding friends: he was lonely, depressed, and I didn’t give him enough attention. I guess I just wanted to believe it, that it was all nothing—or maybe I was just too deep in the need for love, even if it was toxic. We said we’d try again, and that he’d delete the profile—that he hadn’t met anyone anyway.
A few months later, I had already moved out but we were still trying to make things work. He visited slightly more than he used to, and would answer his texts. Even so, one day we were hanging out and I saw a Bumble notification light up on his phone. He had “forgotten to delete it.” I kept trying to make it work, but I didn’t trust him anymore—and honestly, didn’t respect him. After many a conversation with Julie, my nurses, my family, and some friends, I had gotten the confidence needed to get the fuck away from him, break it off for good.
He kept trying for a while, even just for a “friendly coffee” after I had gotten out of the hospital—but I kept cancelling the plans and putting it off. Something just didn’t feel right. Soon enough, I had started talking to someone new, and told him to just leave me the hell alone—nothing was going to happen anymore. I blocked him, and we never spoke again.
Sometimes I still get scared that I’ll randomly see his face out and about, or will see a car that looks like his and get chills in my blood. Sometimes I’ll worry he’ll make a new number and start bugging me, but I know none of that is going to happen. I never have to deal with him ever again. He did his damage, for sure, but I don’t have to worry about being hurt or abandoned like that ever again.
October, 2022, I rang the bell. I had officially beaten cancer. It took almost a year of consistent chemotherapy and treatment to do it, and I’d still be on an oral form of chemo for about a year, but I was finally in remission. I had done it. I wore my prom dress to ring the bell, and my doctor did too—it was a big day, deserving of a big, poofy dress.
I made deep connections with all of my nurses, and with Julie, and reconnected wholly with my family. They were all my advocates when I didn’t know how to do it for myself. Each of them, in their own special way, helped to save my life.
Julie helped me with paperwork over the next few months to get back into school, while I busted my ass to get strong enough to handle walking around the campus. I journaled regularly and read even more than when in the hospital to try and get my brain in shape, too. I had meetings with my therapist every week to help process what had happened and deal with my anxiety and depression—both were much better after ringing my bell (and breaking up with my ex: turns out he was draining a lot from me).
As I got stronger, I started connecting with a friend of mine, Tommy. By March, 2023, we were dating. He made me feel like the smartest, most beautiful, most important person in the world, and never left a doubt that he was thoroughly impressed, proud, and enthralled by me. That same month, my Aunt Neecie took me out to Maui, HI for a month-long retreat. I got to walk amongst the palms, swim with the turtles, and explore myself again. I returned to myself in Maui, with the island holding me along the way.
When I came home to Portage, I felt renewed. Summer was on its way, the sun was bright and shining, and school was just around the corner. Tommy and I spent a lot of time together, taking trips to the beach and to get coffee, talked about what we wanted in our lives. He was so happy that I was going back to school so soon, and was willing to hold my hand every step of the way. During the summer, I tried my ass off at getting into a dorm room… then an apartment… then a shared room with others… then a co-op: everything was booked or wayyyy out of my price range. Tommy made the leap of moving back out to Ann Arbor with me—he knew I couldn’t handle commuting again, and wanted to make sure that didn’t happen. He wanted me to focus on my schooling because he knew that was important. Just as important as a full-time job.
We found an apartment, and moved all of our stuff out to Ypsilanti in August, bringing our cats and our big aspirations with us. After everything, it really felt like it all was starting to look up for the better.
I went back to my degree in August of 2023, my full scholarship still in check. My first year and a half back were difficult: I was playing big-time catchup with being out of the higher education environment for so long. Homework was difficult, lectures were difficult, and it felt like I never had enough time for anything, especially myself or finding friends. I wasn’t even thinking about what I wanted to do: just one foot in front of the other.
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It took until the Fall semester of 2024 to even feel close to caught up, and it was some of my heaviest coursework yet. Even so, I had the class that changed everything: Community Psychology. Suddenly, everything came into view of what I wanted to do with my life and how I wanted to help make the world a better place. All of my other classes that semester helped solidify that this was the type of work I was meant to do: working within community, with the people, to achieve lasting and beneficial change. I even managed to make a couple of friends, for the first time in my college career.
By Winter, 2025, it became obvious that social work, specifically, is what I’m meant to do. I was helped by the best social worker ever in the hospital. She changed my life. And I so badly wanted to be that support for other people: the kind of real, accessible help that people really need. I began doing research about careers and schools for that domain, and made a plan to apply for the UM Masters in Social Work. I had finally found something that I felt sure and passionate about, and was so excited to be able to continue my journey. Nothing that I had experienced during my break had deterred me from returning to school at all, and dammit, I was finishing my degree and figuring it all out.
By the time I had started thinking about Masters school, it had become clear that I would be graduating soon. Extremely soon. Like, at the end of this semester, soon. My last semester would be the busiest I had ever experienced, but all of my classes I loved. Each one solidified my decision to be in social work, and taught me valuable skills I could use in the field—as well as deepening my skill and appreciation for writing, of course. I could never abandon my writing.
I was feeling extremely bittersweet about it all, especially as the days came closer and closer to Commencement. I started thinking about my time at UM, how it was spent, and how not everything I expected and dreamed of came true: but in some ways, it did.
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Sure, my first couple of years were tainted by a toxic relationship and the pandemic, and then I had to take a break because of stupid cancer. But at the same time, I got the chance to break off that toxic relationship, to find myself again before coming to school, and remember why I loved education so much. I didn’t find lots of friends, or even any until the end of my time here, but I made friends elsewhere: at the hospital, with my family, through my current partner, and I still managed to make buddies in class. I didn’t go to any crazy parties, and I spent all of my time studying and doing schoolwork, but who’s to say that’s a bad thing? I made it to graduation and am getting my degree, finally, because of my consistent hard work. I’d say it paid off. I figured out what I wanted to do, even if it was at the very end, and learned so incredibly much while I was here. I found myself, time and time again, and learned more about myself than I could have ever asked for.
I learned how to advocate for myself and others. I learned, again, how to be successful and do the things that needed to be done. I learned how to show myself grace in the hardest of moments and still come back to reach further than I had before, even when I’d fail or circumstances would hold me back. I learned to believe in love again, when I was convinced it didn’t exist for me. I learned how to have hope for my future again, and to keep dreaming—to reach for those dreams when they feel out of possibility.
My family, my exes, my mental health, my time at UM, my leukemia, all brought me to where I am today: a loved, badass woman who can’t be stopped for anything.