I’m coming out of one of those mornings. One that reminded me that I am still my mother’s daughter.

There are memories I have of my mom from childhood and even some when I was a teenager, of her being locked to the couch for what felt like days at a time. I don’t necessarily remember her being on anything then, though there was a time in which she struggled with pills.

The memories I’m referring to include her being depressed, but it seemed so much more than a singular word could do justice. She was there, but not really. She’d look beyond me when I’d look at her, and I didn’t understand why she acted that way until I was in my early twenties.

My depression is a little different, as anyone who struggles with it might think. The anxiety I feel within the episodes of goneness that overcomes me (out of nowhere, it seems) makes for this feeling of sinking in quicksand and acknowledging the fear of dying, but feeling like there is nothing that can be done about it. I think it’s important to note that I am, in no way, feeling suicidal.

I almost followed in saying, “I’m just dealing with a comorbid condition” but I don’t want to downplay it. I really fucking sucks, you know? I will say that even acknowledging the difficulty in living this way relieves a bit of the weight.

I don’t know how my mom did it. I mean, I know she didn’t do it well, but I can’t imagine having children now (or ever). I feel like I’ve said this a lot to friends lately, but I really wish she had a choice in deciding to have the life she did. I know we all make our choices, but when you’re a kid you can’t know the weight of your actions until it’s too late.

I go back and forth with giving my mom more grace than maybe I should. There’s so much that I don’t know about her life, though I wish I did. I don’t know if it would answer any questions I have, but at this point, I don’t think I have questions anymore. I just want to know the truth, the truth from my mom’s perspective. I’ve been doing better at letting that go, the wanting to know.

Letting go of wanting to know gives me space to enjoy the life that I’ve been building for myself. Though I might not have a right to mourn the life that she never got to live, I can’t help but feel sad. I will not live my life for her, because I never have and never will, but I think living more fully in my own life will help shrink the guilt I feel in not having a relationship with her. Like, if she had the opportunity to do it again, I’d hope to god she’d choose herself.

I don’t mean to be ungrateful for my existence, it’s because I love my life (despite the hardships that have come and gone) that I’d want her to choose herself.

Until next time.