My mother suffered from bipolar disorder. We didn’t have a name for the illness but we experienced its effects in bizarre ways. One late evening, as I sat doing my homework, my mother came into the room, agitated and manic. She ordered me to get up and follow her to the terrace. She said that I had no redeeming qualities, nothing going for me, nothing to live for. It would be best if I jumped off the roof with her.
I should not be afraid, she said, because we would hold hands. When I tried to run away, she threw me on the ground and pummelled my chest with her bare feet. My brother and sister heard my yelling and rescued me.
The incident left an indelible mark on me. I became quiet, moving around the house invisibly, trying to ensure that I didn’t see or hear my mother, and more importantly, that she didn’t see or hear me. But I was marked – or should I say marred – for life.
Terror became my constant. The more I suppressed it, the more ways it found to escape. It seeped out one day, when my sister was helping me with my homework. I remember I was...