Once, at school, I got into a fight. I totally fell apart when the principal gave me a note for my mom to sign. He had no idea the havoc that could wreak on my life. It made me a bad son, brother, and student.
She had been prescribed a smorgasbord of medication, and I remember one Good Friday when she was depressed, argued with my dad, and then took a bunch of pills and fell asleep. Everyone else but me left to go to a family event, while I kneeled next her to drug-induced slumber and prayed that she would actually wake up again. I was 10.
When she was depressed, she was a stranger, and we were not her children.
One day at school our principal interrupted my class and asked me to gather my things; I was going home for the day. When I stepped outside the classroom, two of my siblings were already with him, and we proceeded to collect the fourth. He led us to a room in the front office I had never been in. My dad was sitting in the dimly-lit room, sitting sideways in a chair, hunched over with his tie untied and draped over his neck. He looked so tired and so much older.
When we walked outside, my uncle was there waiting for us, and that was when I knew my mom was gone.
The four of us sat in the back of his truck and didn’t say much during the ride, other than my sister saying she was scared. When we arrived at my grandfather’s house (where we were living at the time) and walked into the kitchen, the people in there looked at us and immediately looked down, too overcome to look directly at us. My dad led us to my room, and as I was walking in, I heard him crying and saying she’s gone. Every detail of that moment is indelibly etched in my memory.
I’m ashamed of how I handled it; I freaked out, threw chairs and punches, and stormed off down the street. When I came back I locked myself in my room for a few hours, and when I composed myself I proceeded to act like nothing happened. No one had the temerity to challenge me, and when it was time for her funeral a few days later, I stayed home.
That, by far, is the most disappointing decision I’ve ever made. It haunts me every day. I was her oldest son, her first born, who tried so hard to protect her from herself, and I failed her in the end. The shame I feel is intense and permeates my soul.
My dad tried to take us to family therapy but I did my best to torpedo it, and I’m not sure why. Probably because I was just angry at the world. I feel like my entire family suffered because I was so full of pointless, undirected rage. I’ve never been the same, and I think I’m permanently broken because of the experience.
Now I have a son of my own and it frightens me when I see depressive aspects of my mom or myself in him. We talk all the time about what it was like when I was a kid, and I reassure him (truthfully) that he’s much better off than I was at his age, and that he has his act together better than I did. That he can be the one who breaks free of this unfortunate legacy, and that hopefully his kids will know nothing of the sort. I constantly remind myself that I can’t hurt him like my mom hurt me, but when I’m in bad shape it’s a non-argument.
So Destiny, I would tell you to seek help, even if you’re not convinced you need it. Get therapy with your dad, even if it’s in a group setting—maybe especially if it’s in a group setting, to see how we all suffer alike and we can all lean on each other when we need it. Don’t wait until the anger and sadness become a cornerstone of your being. It’s like a houseguest who you didn’t invite, but after a while you get so accustomed to living with it that it convinces you that you don’t want to part with it.
I may not know you, but I know that you deserve better than that. I’m just as certain that the best way to honor your mom’s memory is to live your life unfettered by the sorrow of her passing. Good luck. This stranger from the other side of the Internet will keep you in his thoughts.