Let it Be

Exactly twelve years ago today, I woke up with a mom and the sense of security every child deserves. I thought my life was normal. I thought what I experienced was what every 7th grader went home to. By the time evening came twelve years ago today, I had no more mom and no more delusions that this was normal. My mom killed herself.

This "anniversary" is always a trigger. Every time I look at the clock, I picture what I was doing at that exact time on this day in 2000. And yes, except for a few hours that are blacked out, I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking at each and every minute. It would be easier if I could make myself stop thinking about it and picturing each scene, but in a sick way, I don't want to. As painful as it is, I know if I don't make myself remember what breakfast looked like that day, I will start to forget what my mom looked like. If I don't remember her complete lack of hope, I will forget that it was her illness, not her choice, that took her from me. If I don't remember how much it fucking destroyed me, I will forget how strong I am. 

The tangled mess of emotions I have spent more than a decade working through, pushing down, and sorting out reels me back into that day. On the surface, I'm sad. No one questions why this day would bring my mood down a bit. In fact, it would be weird if I wasn't a little bit sad. But deeper down, I am still angry at her for not getting the help she needed and deserved when she knew that she had a mental illness. It is hard to forgive someone who willingly left me without even saying goodbye. Without even leaving a goddamn note.

Maybe I'm being irrational (I usually am), but this year is worse. I don't have any family around me that I didn't inherit from boyfriend. I'm pretty certain it's a mutual animosity that have kept my family and me from talking this long. Today is different though. I just want one other person to talk to who actually knew my mother. I want to be able to reminisce with someone who was there. But who the hell am I kidding. We never did that. It's easier to forget she existed; they are probably doing the same with me now. Just cut out the fucking bipolar crazies.  

This is also the first anniversary I have spent knowing that I have the same illness that killed my mother. I'm scared the same will happen to me and angry at her for not being here to tell me it will be alright, the way she used to when I was little. Before she wasn't here to tell me that anymore, and before I stopped believing it.