“The place where light and dark begin to touch is where miracles arise.” - Robert A. Johnson

Age 7: Birth of a Phoenix

I shifted uncomfortably on the cold, hard classroom floor. The SMARTboard in front of me blinked back big red words: What is depression? What is bipolar disorder?

“Class, listen up! Today, we are discussing a very serious topic,” Ms. Taylor stated firmly, her eyes sweeping over us. She pointed at the SMARTBoard.

“What is depression? What is bipolar disorder?” she asked. “Does anyone have an idea?”

I picked at the hole in my jeans. Scratched a spot behind my ear. Folded and unfolded my hands. The deafening silence was agonizing. I did not want to talk about this. What happened to recess?

“Well, both depression and bipolar disorder are mental illnesses that can often be mixed up with one another. More specifically, bipolar is a mood disorder that includes depression; people usually experience extreme mood swings with depressive lows and manic highs,” our teacher said. “They can also experience hallucinations. That’s when they see things that aren’t real.”

I glanced up from the braid I was making. Hallucinations? I had heard that word before. It had come from the mouth of a man dressed in all white. He smelled like the hospital.

“Is that like, they think they’re living in another world?” someone asked beside me.

“Yes, Brian. Sometimes that is the case.”

I raised my hand and hesitantly asked, “Ms. Taylor, um, are phoenixes real? My mom told me she sees a phoenix in her and me sometimes. Is that a hallucination?”

“That’s a great question, Alexis. I think your mom just means that you have a fiery personality. There’s no need to worry,” Ms. Taylor responded, smiling gently. I flushed and nodded my head.

“If anyone you ever know displays symptoms of these two things we just learned about, you need to come to me, okay? Or any trusted adult. We’re here to help you,” she continued.

“Yes, Ms. Taylor,” we replied in unison.

Age 10: Phoenix Rising

I glanced at my hands. They were tinged purple. I blew on them to warm them up, watching as my breath puffed out like a cloud in front of me. Across the street from my house, a little boy played on a sled with his mom.

“Watch me, Mom, watch me!” he yelled.

“I am, sweetie! You look amazing,” his mom yelled back with a smile.

I turned away, resting my head on my knees. The ice was slowly starting to seep into my leggings, stinging my skin. I drew circles in the snow, passing time until my mom’s eyes turned back to blue.

Age 13: Light 

“My Little Phoenix!” My mom called. I cautiously padded downstairs, peeking at her from behind the stairwell.

“Oh don’t be shy, baby girl. Come! Mommy has a surprise.” Her words stumbled over each other, seemingly competing for speed as they hurled themselves out of her mouth. Her eyes were lit up in the most brilliant blue, her pupils glowing like miniature halos as sunlight flitted across her face. She eagerly gestured to me. “Come, it’s in the garage.” Her cold hand shook as it grasped mine, tugging me after her.

Once we reached the garage, she flung open the door and swept her hand across the room. My mouth dropped open as I took in the piles and piles of shopping bags bursting at the seams. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and Chanel bags flashed their tags.

“Isn’t it amazing?” my mom squealed. “You can pick whatever you want!”

I tentatively smiled. “Wow, Mom, thanks…but are you sure we can afford this?”

My mom’s crooked teeth were on full display as she grinned. “Oh, Little Phoenix. Always Mommy’s caring little girl. Don’t you worry. It’s my gift! Promise me you’ll keep it a secret, though, ok? Daddy shouldn't know about this.” She made a shushing movement, throwing her head back as she laughed delightfully. My smile grew.

“Ok, Mom. I promise.”

Age 14: Dark

I padded down to my mom’s bedroom, eyes on my phone. “Mo-” I started to say, stepping halfway through the door. I glanced up from my screen, stopping mid-phrase. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness.

The curtains were drawn and the blinds were completely shut, enveloping the room in darkness. I shivered as my eyes focused on a silhouette sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Mom?” I whispered.

The silhouette ignored me.

“Mom!” I shouted, desperation seeping into my voice.

The silhouette at last jolted, turning around so I could see the beginnings of a face. I shivered as I stared into her unseeing eyes. They were clouded, a misty gray haze settling over the usual ocean blue. My gaze tracked down her pale face and frail body.

“M-mom? Are you ok?” I barely squeaked out.

The silhouette seemed to all of a sudden come back to life. She quickly swiped a hand over her eyes and blinked rapidly, color infusing back into her face. “Oh, hey, Little Phoenix. Did you need something?”

I swallowed the sliver of dread I felt creeping up inside me and pasted on a smile. 

“No, Mom. Never mind.”

Age 15: Flames of a Phoenix

The monsters had come back angrier than before. They shoved through the door with renewed strength, splintering it into pieces. There was nothing my mom could do to stop them. I could see them sometimes in the middle of her episodes. They were drowning her. I saw her gasping for breath, trying to escape them, but they were too strong and too many.

“God, I hate you. That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?” my mom screamed. Her face was red, eyes black as coal. “Well, guess what? I’ll do it right now! I’ll slit my throat and kill myself. That’s what you want, right? Watch me!”

Her words echoed around me. They slammed into me full-force, digging into my skin. 

She lunged forward to grab me, except it wasn’t her I saw. Hundreds of demons shrieking over and over replaced her. The only thing holding her back was my dad.

That night I fled the house, running until it felt like my heart would go up in flames. Each heavy step matched the rapid thumping of my heart. I laughed maniacally as I imagined running fast enough until I was flying, soaring overhead as I took the shape of a phoenix.

Age 16: Light & Dark

She twirled around and around, her white sundress swishing back and forth. Her golden hair shone in the starlight—a stark contrast to the midnight sky. Her laughter echoed in my ears. Her eyes shone blue; they were as clear as day. Angelic.

I was asked to produce a picture for her remembrance at her funeral.

But my image can’t be produced. This memory embodies her: someone who is not light or dark but the mixing of both. How could I communicate that through one picture?

I settled for a picture of a phoenix instead.

I had always wondered why she was drawn to the fiery bird, why it was my nickname. Perhaps she thought dying was the only way she would be able to rise from the ashes like a phoenix, free of all the monsters that plagued her in her past life. Perhaps she believed death would bring her the peace she never found on earth. Perhaps she was somewhere now where her Little Phoenix shopped extravagantly with her, our heads thrown back as our laughter rang in the air, stumbling into each other in a rush to hide all the shiny clothes and bags before Dad got home.