My Mother

You know when you're growing up and you think your parents are superheroes because they can literally do anything. You look up to them and want to be just like them when you grow up. That's how I saw my mother, she was amazing. She took care of seven kids (along with my dad), she cooked and cleaned and worked and even volunteered. She made everything look effortless. It wasn't till I got older that I realized that she had her own struggles and secrets. She had not technically lied to us but she wasnt really honest either. I guess that's what a parents job is, to keep the bad away from their children, to never let them know pain. It didn't work, if you were curious. I wondered how she kept silent all those years, maybe the turmoil of hiding the truth is what drove her mad. She gradually fell into a state of depression, losing the light that was inside of her. How could I fix someone who didn't want to be fixed? Someone who ignored that her castle walls were crumbling down around her. Just like my mother, I ignored what was happening to her, not because I didn't care. I was young and didn't know how the world worked. Maybe I was stupid and just didn't want to face the truth that I was slowly losing her to her sickness. She did things I didn't understand, hurt herself over and over. I always wondered if she was escaping her demons or her family. Maybe both? As the years went on things got worse. My siblings and I would joke that she would go on her yearly vacations, her ’ME TIME ". In actuality she was in behavioral health facilities undergoing treatments. Again, if you're curious they never worked, not for long anyways. At the time I really didn't have faith in God, I suppose I was upset with him for everything that had happened to my family, as if he was in control of our actions. I wanted someone to blame, to hate because I couldn't do that to my mother, I still looked up to her or the her that I remembered. I didn't notice the drug use at first, unlike my siblings I was oblivious to these things. I used to say I was sheltered from the world but that's not true. My brothers and sisters knew the world so why didn't I? The truth, I was scared to live so finding out even more secrets about my mother had messed with me. I pretended that everything was okay, that we were a happy family. I imagined it, I must have because the memories I had didn't fit the memories of my siblings. My mother would have angry outbursts, wailing like a banshee. Perhaps predicting her own death or the many attempted ones. Time had passed yet again and she had gotten to the point that she needed shock therapy, she lost some of herself during that time, forgetting bits and pieces of the past and present. And again more time had passed and so had one of my brothers, her baby. She wasn't the same, masking pain with silence. After he was gone, I thought we had become close, we talked and laughed, we did things that normal mothers and daughters did but was it real? I don't remember telling my mother that I loved her, even as a child, so I started. Shy and timid, afraid that she wouldn't say it back and she didn't but that was okay because that's how our family was. We didn't say I love you or even hug, at least I think we didn't, my memories blurred. Towards the end when she got sick I begged God to save her. “Just this once please, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do better,” I pleaded to him but nothing. She was moved to hospice, apparently she had developed a flesh eating bacteria that would affect her face. The doctor's plan was to cut half of it off, her last words to me were to not let them take her face. I cried and cried and cried, I had never been without my mother. I had become codependent on her presence alone. My father had put me in charge of her medical decisions since she had become unresponsive. I was young and naive, how was I supposed to decide my mothers fate? I sat with her, talked with her. I knew she wasn't coming back but I wasn't ready to be alone even if I still had my father and siblings. They had significant others and children, lives of their own and I somehow remained the same, stuck at home afraid of the world. I didn't want her stuck here like me so I let her go, telling her we’d be fine and I thought we would be but we weren't. We were broken and lost. I foolishly thought my family was safe and perfect but I was wrong. Even now after all these years, after the passing of my mother and father I'm still stuck and alone, afraid of the world but I still believe in her. For putting up with the pain for so many years. For surviving every attempt. For not letting the drugs be her downfall and overcoming them. For taking care of us even after hers will was dwindling.