Caregiver Identity

I recently had an incident with a friend that I am trying to process, and I realized I couldn’t process it until I acknowledged my identity as a caregiver for someone with a mental illness. Growing up, my parents' mental health wasn’t great. I saw my father through his manic and depressed states. His highs came with big purchases we couldn’t afford and his lows were debilitating. He’d be in bed for hours, not move and be upset at the world. His worst low was when he was having psychosomatic pains, and I had to call 911 to make sure he’d be okay. I was 10 at the time. 

He got better after that, with some medication and therapy, but I found myself needing to adjust my moods and behaviors to fit his. My mom has gone through psychosis, and I was there the night she was overwhelmed, crying on the floor. She wouldn’t talk to my dad, or my younger sister, only to me. We took her to the emergency room and she stayed in a mental illness facility for three weeks. I was 17, and only visitors 18 and older were permitted, so I talked to her through scheduled calls to calm her down. 

The pandemic exacerbated her symptoms, and I was once again in charge of handling the situation. I got good at addressing other people’s needs, and this seeped into other parts of my personal life. My identity as a caregiver for my parents has made me want to fit into that role for everyone else. My identity became that of a therapist friend, someone who needed to take care of other people, and in most cases, that was at the expense of myself. 

Now, I let my negative emotions pile up and don’t express them, so I don’t damage other people’s mental health. I had an incident with a friend recently, where I had to put my mental health first despite her excitement. I know I let her down, and I felt so guilty. This isn’t what I’m used to. I am used to caring about other people before myself, but this time I needed to put my oxygen mask on first.