There’s nothing I could say that would do justice to Jeri Walker’s moving account of growing up with a mother who has a mental illness except please read it. For those of you who have lived through it, her words will seem all too familiar. For those of you who haven’t, you will soon understand. Jeri is a unique and beautiful writer and I’m truly honored to share her story here today.

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When your mother is crazy and you’re five, no one bothers to explain exactly what that word means. Your state of mind is of no consequence: mom has center stage. So crazy means you get to ride in the red Chevy Nova with your mom and your aunt once a month to Spokane where the big hospitals and important doctors are. (Local facilities cannot accommodate her. Somehow, crazy is big-city material.) As Mom talks with the doctor—a distinguished gray-headed man who looks like Phil Donahue—your aunt takes you to a park that has a bridge over a small stream of water. Crazy must be good if it means monthly park visits.Continue Reading