Mom

There are only a handful of people that I've really loved in my life, and my mother was one of them. As much as our relationship had been tumultuous at times, I knew she was extraordinary. Her bipolar disorder drove her creatively and intellectually, which was the part that drew everyone to her like a fragrant flower. She was beautiful, funny, deep, complex and compassionate. And when Mom was well, my life was bursting with colour, and when she wasn't, I found myself tiptoeing around a dark house, waiting for her to reemerge again.

When people think of bipolar disorder, they may picture an unkempt person, messy house, illogicalness, and perhaps someone bordering schizophrenia, but that wasn't Mom. She was extremely high functioning, and she continued to be loving mother who was affectionate, and cried when summer vacation was over. She packed lunches, she went to parent teacher interviews, she gave hugs and kisses, she guided and taught me, and she exposed me to to the arts, from museums to musical theatre. I was mannered, well dressed, well spoken, which I fully attribute to Mom, and she was also a strict disciplinarian, with me constantly in fear of making her mad or sad, knowing just how fragile she was, crumbling under the slightest unkind word or action.

In spite of the ups and downs, Mom had been my life compass. So, when she committed suicide just before my 25th birthday, my own world completely crumbled. I couldn't breathe whenever I thought about her being gone forever, so I pictured her on a long vacation instead. And as everyone else mourned around me, I felt nothing, choosing to bury my sadness in hopes it would never return. It was while I was in the throws of denial, that my father announced he'd met someone just three months after Mom's death. It felt as if we'd just gotten settled, and now there were three new people entering our family, which included a widowed mother and her two adult children. At first I'd resisted, but it wasn't long before I found myself sucked into the magicalness, and the sense of family I so craved. And so three months later, my sister and I walked down aisle in front of Dad's new wife, as we watched them exchange vows, promising endless love and togetherness.

I'd been full of hope that day, picturing the gaping hole in my heart being filled by this new mother figure, but it wasn't long before her true colours would appear. Three months to be exact. She was now cold and unaffectionate, with it clear that she'd never loved any of us, including my father, as she quickly cut-off all intimacy. And within their new home, purchased by my father, she'd strategically placed photos of her son and daughter throughout, while stuffing any remnants of my sister and I in the dingy room in the basement.

On the one year anniversary of Mom's death, six months into Dad's marriage, I'd been talked into going on a paid family vacation with my father and stepmom. Dad had been concerned how the grief might strike that day and didn't want me to be alone, but the truth was I hadn't thought much of it, with me now consumed with disillusionment, along with strange symptoms I could no longer shake. This included chronic anxiety and insomnia, shaking hands, compulsive thoughts of dying, and an eating disorder. I was a complete mess, but had managed to hide it from everyone, including my husband. This trip had been my last hope, convincing myself that sun, sand and some relaxation was all I needed in order to fix myself. But, as soon as we arrived, Dad sunk into a deep depression, and my stepmom seemed intent to ruin everyone's vacation but her own.

Then, Mom's anniversary arrived, as I found myself caught in the undertow, swept further and further out to sea. My exhaustion seemed to be filling every limb like a weight, as I began to slowly sink below the surface. It was then that the grief of Mom rose up like a giant wave. I saw her face, I remembered her voice, her touch, her smell, and I could no longer deny just how much I missed her. I wanted to cry out in pain, but instead, the water enveloped me.

Suddenly, I choked on my last breath, the water hitting my nostrils and back of my throat, snapping me out of my trancelike state. As exhausted as I'd felt, a burst of energy had entered my body, as I fell into a steady rhythm of strokes until the water released me. Had Mom saved me? It's hard to say, but if there was one thing I realized in that moment, it was that I wasn't yet ready to give up as she had. Yes, somewhere in the depths of my soul was a girl who wanted to still live, no matter how empty she felt inside.