Born Into Crisis: A Memoir

By Kenneth Nixon

The American mental health system is in crisis, and those affected by its shortcomings are drowning without the tools and resources they deserve and need to thrive. In Born Into Crisis, author Kenneth Nixon shares his story of growing up with a mother with severe mental illness and a family stuck in an en

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burning Soul Press
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950476572

Book preview

Preface

Real talk, writing a memoir was hard! I had to sift through some good but more bad memories to find a focus for my story. And sometimes, that meant leaving out details or other stories because the stories would take the book down a different path. Cherry-picking specific stories felt weird and unnatural. But that process helped to ensure everything included in this book was purposeful. And the stories that aren't included? They're still part of my life, even if the stories did not make the final cut. It wasn't always easy to make those decisions, but I think they were necessary to create a memoir that was honest and true to my experience. The stories that didn't make it in typically fall into this category: stories that get to the core of what I experienced, but that I’m not emotionally ready to tackle or see reflected on paper in a way that could trigger a feeling of being too open, and a fear of hurting others. I could get there one day, but that day is not today. Born into Crisis is about breaking cycles of trauma and crisis, not delivering judgment.

My simple request to my readers is to take a trauma-informed approach. A trauma-informed approach to reading this would look like a reader being okay with not having all the answers, not always knowing what happened next, and respecting choices regarding what to include. This also means being aware of the potential triggers that can cause you or someone else to become traumatized or feel re-traumatized. It means approaching the subject with sensitivity and care.

Taking a trauma-informed approach when reading about trauma includes: being aware of your own triggers and how they might affect your ability to read about mental illness and trauma. Take breaks as needed and avoid reading if you're feeling particularly triggered or upset. Seek out support from friends, family, or a therapist if you find yourself struggling.

When discussing mental illness or trauma with others, it's also important to be mindful of how your words might affect them. If you're unsure whether someone is ready to talk about their experiences, it's always best to ask before bringing up the topic. And if someone does share their story with you, be sure to listen with care and without judgment.

By taking a trauma-informed approach when reading about mental illness or trauma, you can ensure that you're approaching the subject in a way that is safe and comfortable for you. This will allow you to get the most out of the material without causing you undue distress.

This book is about unlearning the harmful things taught about boundaries and relationships and learning what it means to have a healthy relationship with yourself. It is also about highlighting and advocating for the systemic transformation of our mental health system in America.

I want to invite everyone to explore their own stories while reading this book. This book is a journey of self-discovery for me; I hope it can be the same for everyone in many ways. We all have stressors and personal stories that have impacted our lives. My writing is an offering to anyone who has ever experienced trauma, anyone who has been told they are not enough, and anyone searching for their truth. I hope it helps you to understand that it is ok not to have all the answers, not to be perfect, and just to be human.

And finally, I want to say that while this book is a memoir, it is not the only story of my life. It is one version of many possible stories. I encourage you to write your story and share it with the world in whatever way feels right for you. Happy reading.

Introduction

I can't help but feel that my life has been predetermined by the events that occurred on the day of my birth. It's as if some greater power had a plan for me, and no matter what I did, I was destined to end up right where I am today, advocating for the transformation of the mental health system in America. I was born into crisis. My father found me in my mother’s apartment lying on the floor wrapped in newspaper on the day I was born. He observed my mother, Ramona, sitting in the corner of the living room, near the kitchen, withdrawn and stiff. She had bitten off part of the umbilical cord.

Ramona was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 and paranoid schizophrenia, among other illnesses. She suffered from severe mental illness for most of her life. Her mental illness was something that I grew up having to navigate and learned to cope with at an early age. I never knew what it was like to have a normal family life. There were always arguments and threats of violence between my parents (who never married). Come to think of it, they never actually dated. It is much more accurate to say they had a one-night stand and just happened to have a child together. It never was clear how my father came to know Ramona was pregnant with me.

Ramona was well-known in the community because of her mental health challenges. Everyone knew who she was, even my Granny Elizabeth (my father's mother), who always talked about how she used to see Ramona walking around town and would say to herself, That poor woman, she is not right in the head. They both lived in the same apartment building for a period of time. I have been told that my Granny Elizabeth, in some ways, would look out for Ramona from time to time to ensure that she got something to eat or took a shower.

I know Ramona and my father met at a house party in the Green Valley community of south Arlington, Virginia. My father was very upfront with me about being under the influence of alcohol when he and Ramona connected at that party. He was having a good time, she was seemingly having a good time, and one thing led to another. What wasn't anticipated was an inebriated moment at a house party that would produce a child.

I’m a biased storyteller. This memoir is my best recollection of events and conversations as they unfolded with all the emotion and bias intact. I have intentionally changed the names of some of my siblings to protect their privacy. While this book is about mental health and trauma, it should not be used as a substitute for seeking treatment and advice from a practicing clinician or professional credentialed in the mental health field. This is my world as I saw it—through the eyes of someone born to a mother with severe mental illness. During my childhood, I did find refuge in my grandmother, Elizabeth. My father also was a pillar of strength for me, always doing his best to provide stability amid chaos. As I grew older, I became increasingly curious about my mother's condition. I started to see her as more than just someone who caused me pain—I saw her as a human being with feelings and struggles of her own.

My mother has spent her whole life trapped in a cycle of local jails, emergency room visits, and state psychiatric institutions. The lack of a robust continuum of care within a community-based system left my mother in an ongoing crisis—and I was trapped in the middle.

Even though my childhood was difficult, I wouldn't trade my journey for anything. It has made me stronger and more resilient, despite my mental health challenges (anxiety and PTSD) on top of having ADHD. And now that I'm a parent myself, I can better understand and empathize with the challenges my father faced raising me. He simply could not protect me 24/7 from my mother or her mental illness. As much as he tried to provide for me and make me feel loved, there were times when I felt like he didn't know how to connect with me emotionally. Looking back, I now realize he was just trying to do his best. My father passed away in 2019 from cancer. It was a difficult time for my family and me, but I was grateful that he could spend his final days at home surrounded by loved ones. Even though he's no longer with us physically, he will always be a part of me. And I know he is proud of the man I have become.

I always wanted to be like him—strong, dependable, loyal, and a committed family man. As I got older, I realized I couldn't change my past. I could do something about the present, work to shape my future, and plan for my eternal conclusion. I bore my mother's maiden name from birth into adulthood (Coles). The crescendo of that chapter in my life happened in 2009 when I legally changed my last name to Nixon to honor my father. It also represented a new beginning for me. I will never forget where I came from or the lessons I learned along the way. And even though I experienced some dark times, I am grateful for the strength and determination it has instilled in me.

Nixon is now my legal last name—but no matter how hard I try, part of my story will always be that of a child born to a mother in crisis. It has impacted my journey, a journey I have been on since I was born.

I had lived in four distinct locations and three states by age four. I was born in Arlington, Virginia, and, almost immediately after my birth, I moved to Shelby, North Carolina, where I lived for eighteen months with my grandmother, Elizabeth. The next move was to Baltimore, Maryland, with my father, stepmother, and step-siblings until my father and stepmother moved again, settling back into the same Green Valley community in Arlington. In addition to living in different places, I also experienced different caretaking arrangements. Sometimes I lived with my dad and stepmother; other times, I lived with my Granny Elizabeth. Throughout my childhood, there were also times when we all lived under the same roof. Thanks to the challenges of this transient lifestyle, I learned to be flexible and resilient at a young age.

The fourth move back to Arlington in the early 1990s was one street over from where I was born. The street we lived on was a predominantly low-income, working-class Black community. Everyone knew everyone. Even the local corner store owner nearby knew every family in the community and where they lived. If you did something you were not supposed to do, you could be sure the news would make its way back to your parents.

I often went with my older stepsister, Latoya, to that same corner store. We would consistently buy a Mr. Freezie popsicle for fifty cents. These were about two feet long, and we loved them as children. Fifty cents went further back then, and we were grateful for our small joys. Many low-income, working-class Black families in the Green Valley community were poor. There is a big difference between being broke and being poor. Being broke would have been a welcome luxury. The funny thing about poverty is that you do not know you are poor until someone points it out.

However, the community was still full of vibrant life and lots of kids. We all played with each other in the neighborhood. We usually found our way over to the Walter Reed Recreation Center, playing basketball and kickball, enjoying the swings, and crossing the monkey bars. We would have the time of our lives. Our parents would allow us to stay outside until around 11 p.m. during the summer so the neighborhood mothers could gather on the stoop at our home and hold court to discuss the day’s fresh gossip.

This predominantly African American community lacked the modern conveniences of suburbia. The only grass you would see at times grew through the cracks of the cement sidewalks. Most apartment homes did not have a washer and dryer hookup, so many folks went to the local laundromat. I still remember throngs of clothes being hung on outdoor lines to dry when the dryers at the laundromat were broken.

There was no local grocery store. The community was served by one bus line that went back and forth to Columbia Pike into north Arlington. Even though the area was considered low income, the residents took pride in their homes and kept them clean and well-maintained. However, despite this being a place where everyone knew and looked out for each other, there were limitations. The community was not equipped to help a child and did not know how to navigate the family dynamics of someone with a severe mental illness. Nor were there adequate resources to help those suffering. All of these formative experiences are woven into the tapestry of my life. The journey I have trod is foundationally grounded in this community. It will always be a part of me. It is the community where I learned how to ride a bike, where I met my first friend, and where my story begins.

Part One

My StoriesCourt Order Document

Chapter One

Garfield Apartments

It’s Saturday morning. As with most eight-year-old children, the moment the sunlight breaks through my closed eyes, I awaken with a burst of energy, ready to conquer the day. My morning routine concludes with me clearing my cereal bowl from the table. All right, everyone outside until lunch, my stepmother announces. I don’t need any children around while cleaning the house. My stepmother's rules are simple: Stay out of trouble and don't come back inside until lunch. We all know what that means. It means we're not allowed to be in her way, or she'll find something for us to do.

My stepmother and father married in August of 1987. She had four children before meeting my father, two girls and two boys. Together they had two more children, one boy, and one girl, bringing the number of children living in the home up to seven. We ranged in age from toddler age up through high school to eighteen. My stepmother was a stickler for rules and order. Everything had to be done her way and in her time. Mealtimes, bedtimes, and bath times were all scheduled and went like clockwork daily. My stepmother believed children should be seen and not heard. We were to do as we were told without question. If we didn't, we were disciplined. The disciplinary actions varied and were swift. I learned quickly not to test her patience.

Knowing the rules, Josh (my baby half-brother) and I get our bikes that morning, and we are off to see what adventures await us outside. Once outside, Josh and I play bus drivers on our way to pick up waiting patrons. Josh is a driver for the Dash bus, and I am the driver of the Fairfax Connector. We ride up and down the street, pretending to be making bus stops to pick up people. Each time we pass each other, we pretend to beep a horn as if we were passing one another on the highway. It is a straightforward game, but it requires creative imagination. It is 1995; this time is absent all the technology that will soon be prevalent in society. No tablets, smartphones, or smart devices. YouTube? Forget about it! Who heard of Facebook, Twitter, or Snapchat? Those things are inconceivable. It is simply my imagination and creativity that unlock excitement and fun.

As my brother and I enjoy this game's simplicity, we hear a faint but familiar sound in the distance. The sound grows louder as it gets closer. Then suddenly, Josh shouts, Dad’s coming!

I hit the brakes on my bike and look in the direction my brother is pointing. I can see the all-black 1980 Chrysler Lebaron, with its custom exhaust system and unique rumble, gingerly coming down the road. Close your eyes and imagine the hit TV show The Jeffersons. Got the image? Good. Now focus on the appearance of George Jefferson. Add about five inches to his height and the forearms of Popeye the Sailorman. You have a correct image of my father, especially being bald on top with hair wrapping around the rest of his head.

As Dad pulls in, Josh and I drop our bikes and begin making our way over to him, eagerly waiting for him to get out of the car.

Dad, what are you doing? Josh asks.

In his deep baritone, Dad says, Standing here looking at you. What are you two doing out here?

Riding our bikes, we respond.

Instantaneously, I can hear my stepmother calling for Josh out of the front door, and at once, Josh makes his way into the house. Now it is just Dad and me standing there.

What are you about to do, Dad? I ask.

I'm about to change the oil and check the fluids in the car, he responds.

As my dad pops up the hood, I cling to his every footstep by following him to the front of the car. He lifts the hood and begins tinkering. In the background, I can hear the soft chatter and laughter of the running neighborhood children. It sounds like fun! I need to see what the excitement is all about.

Boy, get back over here! My father shouts to me when he sees that I have run off to see what is happening. But he need not worry because I stopped in my tracks before he completed his sentence.

There it is! I say to myself. I can see it in my sightline. Garfield Apartments! Why is this singular, isolated apartment building so interesting to me? I know it is significant because my father told me that is where I was born. However, I have never understood the entire story behind what took place in Garfield Apartments. What happened that day? I need to know. Now is the perfect time to ask my father. No one else is around. My father is working on the car, just him and me. Questions flood my mind: Wait, does my mother still live there? Has my father seen her recently? Where is my mother? Why is she never around? What am I missing?

There is a lot that I don't know about the day I was born. I know it was a traumatic event, and my mother has a severe mental illness. But what else happened on that day? What were Garfield Apartments like back then? I'm curious to know more about my roots and what kind of life my mother must have been living when she gave birth to me. It's traditional for children to stay in their place or be seen and not heard, but I don't believe in tradition. I deserve to know about the woman who gave birth to me, no matter how difficult it may be. I'm her youngest child. A mother-son relationship is something that has always been on my mind. What would it have been like if I had my mother?

Dad, is that the building where I was born? He responds with, Yes, you already know that. What was that day like? I ask.

Dad stands up from under the car's hood, looks me directly in the eye, and says, That situation was a complete mess.

He says, "I remember feeling off as if something was going to happen that day. I wasn’t myself all day at work, and as the day wore on, I needed to return to check on Ramona. So, I talked to