Opening Up and Connecting with My Mom

My mom has always struggled with depression, and now that I am opening up to her through these blogs, she is the only person I personally know who truly understands and knows who the is face behind these words. She is my person. Although she has told me that her struggle isn’t as severe as mine, I often find myself questioning whether, like any loving mother, she is shielding me from the truth, much as I try to protect my own children.

The Moment I Noticed Her Sadness

I vividly remember the day I truly noticed my mom’s sadness. I was a teenager, and as I stepped out of my bedroom, I saw her at the kitchen sink washing dishes. Something about her seemed different to me. I watched her for a while before I walked over. I may have climbed up onto the kitchen island and sat down—though I can’t recall that detail exactly—but I do remember asking her a personal question about her and my dad. Their anniversary had just passed, and there was something about that night that stayed with me. I won’t go into the details, because her story isn’t mine to tell. But from that moment, I started to notice the small things she had either managed to hide before, or I simply hadn’t seen. I began to see bruises, and when I asked about them, she would say she ran into a door. Her answers seemed logical at the time.

Witnessing the Turmoil at Home

After that, the fighting in our house wasn’t so quiet anymore. One day, I was sitting on my boyfriend’s lap at the computer, chatting away in some chat room, when suddenly the yelling started. I can’t tell you what was being said, as my boyfriend covered my ears. But the day that haunts me most—the day I regret even now as an adult—happened when I was in the bathroom getting ready. I heard my mom scream. I walked out and approached her bedroom door, ready to open it, but I froze. I turned and went back to the bathroom. Again, she screamed. I walked out, but froze once more. The third time she screamed, I left the bathroom and the front door burst open. My little brother, a few years younger than me, went straight to the bedroom door and opened it. He didn’t freeze. His action gave my mom enough time to escape from under the man who was holding a pillow over her face and lock herself in the bathroom. I wasn’t brave enough to open the door. Instead, my little brother was the first to see that our dad was the one holding the pillow. Although I said I wouldn’t go into grave detail, these moments are as much a part of my story as hers.

Regret and Realization

I’ll be honest—I’m not sure how my mom will feel about reading this. But she also told me that when I sit down and the words come, I should let them spill out like vomit. So here I am, letting it all out. That day became one of my biggest regrets. I should have been the one to open the door, before my brother even had a chance to hear the second or third scream. But it was also the day I saw a new side of my mom. The bruises from the doors she always claimed to run into now told me a completely different story. She became the bravest person I know. I realized she only stayed for my brother and me.

Strength and Admiration

The day she told us that she was leaving, she became the strongest person I know—a person she remains to be to this day. I admired my mom beyond belief. Still, there was a part of me that needed my dad, too. I was angry with him for what he was doing to mom, but he was my dad and I loved him.

The Impact of Divorce

After mom spoke to my brother and me about their impending divorce, I went to my dad and told him I would like to split my time between both parents. His response was, “I don’t want you, you are going to pick her anyways, you are the reason she is leaving because you never do any cleaning around the house.” I was a teenager, already struggling with emotions I didn’t understand—because I didn’t really know what depression was—and now I had to battle the pain of believing I was the reason my parents were separating. Yes, I know now that I wasn’t the reason, but I was so naive then, and the words came from my father’s mouth, so why wouldn’t I believe them? From that moment on, I strived for my father’s approval. I didn’t want him to blame me; I wanted him to love me. But that journey is one for another time, as from my teens to my late 30s I fought for his approval—something I still struggle with from time to time.

The Silent Cries

The silent cries from a young girl’s eyes linger as a reminder of the pain and longing I carried through my formative years.