My mom was my first teacher. Before I turned four, she had me reading, and by the time I hit five, I was writing too. When I stumbled over spelling in my early school years, she patiently quizzed me in our retro kitchen, sitting on the cool green linoleum while she read words from a list propped up by the sink. We colored together, dressed up, and often put on little plays, with me walking in her shoes—quite literally at times.
I hold these memories dear; they offer me comfort in the dark. They are remnants of a time when my mom was vibrant and full of life. But, as much as I cherish those days, they can also be haunting—reminders of the mother I once knew who has seemingly vanished. The woman who once radiated joy is now a shadow of her former self, and our relationship has become a distant echo of what it used to be.
What Changed?
You might wonder, with such warm memories, what changed? Where did it all go wrong? The truth is, our relationship didn’t crumble overnight; it was a slow, painful descent into darkness fueled by a string of unfortunate events—multiple moves, job losses, and crippling financial problems. But the real turning point came shortly after I turned twelve, when my father passed away unexpectedly.
In hindsight, I don’t blame my mom for her transformation. She lost her partner, the love of her life, and the father of her children. She lost our past, our present, and the future she envisioned for us. Instead of seeking help, she shut down completely. She stopped talking, stopped eating, and spent days in bed.
The Impact of Grief
Our home soon fell into disarray. Dust and cigarette ash layered every surface, critters invaded our kitchen, and I had to step up. I was doing laundry, cooking meals, and handling chores while still trying to go to school. I was a child adulting way before prom or homecoming, trying to care for my little brother and a mother who was paralyzed by grief and depression.
She would go to work and retreat to bed upon returning. Sure, many kids have chores, but mine were far from ordinary. I became a caretaker trapped in a 12-year-old’s body. By the time I was thirteen, I was shutting down emotionally. At school, I faced ridicule for not being able to go out, and I wore clothes that were either too small or too big—yet I was homebound, taking care of the family. I walked the school halls alone, headphones in, head down, and cried myself to sleep every night.
Hitting Rock Bottom
Things hit rock bottom shortly after my fourteenth birthday. I demanded a mother, a family—anything resembling normalcy—and I expressed my feelings in loud, angry outbursts. But my pleas fell on deaf ears, and our home became a battleground of shouting. By fifteen, my anger turned inward; I began cutting myself, desperate to feel something—anything. Just weeks after my seventeenth birthday, I attempted to take my own life. But I survived, enrolled in college, and never looked back.
A New Chapter
Now, I am a mother to a spirited little girl. My mom is involved in her life, but their interactions are minimal. She has never visited, never babysat, and they’ve never shared those sweet, simple moments that I once took for granted. It pains me when my mother declines invitations to family gatherings or brushes off phone calls with excuses, leaving me to ponder if my daughter, or I, are not enough to pull her from the depths of despair.
Seeing my mom struggle with her mental health hurts deeply. I know she has undiagnosed depression and perhaps other issues, but that doesn’t alleviate my burden or the pain her words cause. Still, despite everything, I cling to hope—that one day she might seek help, smile again, and reconnect with the woman she used to be. I dream of my daughter experiencing the warmth of the grandmother I knew, but I also realize that may never happen.
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Conclusion
In summary, my journey through my mother’s grief and depression has been filled with heartache, resilience, and hope for brighter days ahead.