Control

I grew up in a religion where you weren't allowed to leave, and you weren't allowed to do anything wrong. You also weren't allowed to lead your own life, as the church did that for you. And as for being a woman, we were told that Eve had ruined everything when she convinced Adam to bite into the forbidden apple, and because of this we hadn't just made mankind imperfect, but we'd made ourselves unequal to men.

I hated being controlled by others, and in spite of our family being devout to the religion, within our own family unit were three extremely strong-willed women. Don't get me wrong, we played our parts very well within the church, submitting to the fact we'd never be allowed to teach from the podium, lead a congregation, dress the way we wanted, or sit in the front seat of the car when there was more than one man riding in it. But behind closed doors, we'd somehow been spared husbands who demanded our submission, and instead had left everything to us, from the cooking, cleaning, banking, and vacation planning, to preparation for the religious services. For my sister and I, this was in addition to holding down full-time jobs.

I don't know why I'd romanticized marriage so much growing up, when I'd had one of the most unhappy marriages in front of me. By the time I was born, I not only had an unhappy mother, but a depressed one, who'd fallen out of love with Dad. He'd risen up quickly within the religion after getting married, and between full-time work and a busy congregation, it had left little time for Mom. Plus, with him bound to strict confidentiality within the church, there wasn't much he could share with her at the end of the day, which only weakened their emotional connection. The only thing that seemed to temporarily save our family was vacations, as Dad attempted to piece his marriage back together again. But as soon as we returned home, Mom would fall to pieces, as she found herself launched back into the same mundane, non-fulfilling schedule.

The cycle had been heartbreaking to watch, and it kept us all on edge, as we watched Mom rise up, only to spiral out of control and crash again. But then one day, after officially being diagnosed with bipolar, she decided to leave my father for good after 36 years of marriage. It had caused shockwaves through the church, as members vilified her for such a decision. They pressured her, they gave her the silent treatment and they excluded her from social events, completely extinguishing any excitement she had for the future.

On top of being on a concoction of medications to help with her bipolar disorder that seemed to be failing her, she was now faced with a community that had failed her as well. I'd tried to stay close to her, excited to have a relationship with a medicated mother who'd finally be balanced and happy, but that's not who was in front of me. Instead, I had a mother who was strange, very strange, and she was sad, so very sad. Her hands now shook all the time, she drank throughout the day to cope, and she fixated on things things that made little sense, from aging to finances. I missed her maternalness, her gentle touch, and her words of wisdom that often guided me through my own life. But I was used to waiting, I'd done it my whole life, and I knew that one day she'd return to her old self like she always did, taking comfort in the fact she now had a psychiatrist who'd continue to help her reach that goal.

But then one day, I got a call from my sister. "There's something wrong," she said, her voice trembling. She'd gone over to see Mom and had come home to an unfed cat, and unheard messages on the answering machine. When she opened Mom's bedroom door, there she was on the floor face down, next to the bed. Perhaps intuitively she knew it was too late, as she never stepped into the bedroom to check for a pulse. Instead, she waited for me to get there, as I balanced on one knee, and gently placed my hand on Mom's back as I whispered, "It's me, Ellie. Are you okay?" Coldness radiated from her body as I scrambled backwards a and screamed, "Call 911, she's cold and hard!" Within seconds we heard sirens in the distance, and within minutes we were left with the news that Mom had committed suicide, having overdosed on a concoction of pills that she'd refilled just before the long weekend.

I'd been mad at Mom the last time we spoke, over a poor and rather concerning decision she'd made. I'd tried to reason with her the way a parent would, but all she did was sob and repeat the same line over and over again, as if she was on auto pilot. I'd I hung up the phone frustrated and angry, and here she was now dead, and I'd never be able to say, "I love you," ever again.

But, if there was one gift that my mother had given me, it was a strong will, and as much as it seemed impossible in this moment to rise up and find the strength to change my own unhappy life, I knew I I couldn't let myself die within my cage as my mother had. I had to fly away, even if that meant losing everything.