@There’s something unequivocally difficult about mourning the loss of a parent that’s still alive. It’s a foreign and restless void that never really receives the closure it needs. It’s a constant and resonating voice in the back of your mind that tells you you’re different. Your family is different. It tells you you’re not good enough and debilitates the dreams you had. It wakes you up in the middle of the night, but makes you feel ashamed for burdening your spouse, so you stare at the ceiling for hours. It tells you that you’ll never have the life you were once convinced of.

The first memories I have of my mom are as happy and cheerful as the rose-colored glasses she always wore. I remember hugging her as tight as I could, feeling her cheek on mine, and being convinced she was the best person in the world. She always had a perm, an incredibly messy purse, and drove a Ford Probe. She somehow balanced chaos and order while shielding me from the demons she was fighting. I would visit my grandparents on their farm at least 2 weekends a month and I loved it there. Visiting them meant swimming in the summer, running through the cornfields, listening to stories, and painting anything I could get my hands on. I’d spend time with my aunt and cousin, feeding stray cats and just being a kid. It was my safe place. It’s both funny and fortunate how we don’t understand much of what’s going on when we’re little. When I got older, I learned that some of my time away visiting my grandparents was so my mom could receive addiction treatment. I had no idea at the time, and it probably wouldn’t have mattered to me anyway.

My childhood was similar to a lot of other low-middle class families in the 90’s. My parents were at work when it was time for us to go to school and were still gone when we got off the bus. My older brother was my main source of guidance while they were away and he carried a burden of responsibility that he shouldn’t have had to. Times were different then. Children had more autonomy. But I remember being the only 7-year-old in my class that didn’t have breakfast that day and didn’t have clothes that matched or fit appropriately. It was glaringly obvious that I didn’t have parents at home getting me off to school. The relationship between my parents was volatile at best. Shouting, slamming doors, and tiptoeing around the house were reminders of a marriage that should’ve never happened. Times were different then. We didn’t talk about our family life at school or bring it up to the adults in our life. The family vacations, holiday parties, and trips to amusement parks were short lived Band-Aids that covered up the wounds that would continue to worsen throughout the years. They were the brighter memories that were intended to neutralize the bad ones. The problem with these situations is you either continue living like your role models or you fight with all your being to become the complete opposite.

By the time I looked back and realized how different my life was, I was 25 and living an hour away from my parents. This was when the relationship with my mom changed. I questioned everything and I did everything differently. I stopped believing in the same things my parents did. I stopped believing everything my mom told me and just took it at face value. Leaving my family in my early 20’s was a blessing and a curse. It put a huge strain on the relationship I had with them. I felt like the black sheep. I felt alone and fearful of the future. I developed a heavy dose of anxiety and depression that I still try my best to fend off even now. By the time I was heading into my 30’s, I was ready for my own family. I was married and when I found out I was having a child, it was the best and worst day of my life. If you don’t have children, you won’t understand the profound feeling of having everything you’ve ever wanted and being scared out of your mind that something awful could happen to it. I wanted everything for him, and I wanted it to be different than what I had. I’m far from being a perfect mother, but I vowed his life would be different than mine the day I found out he was with me. He still gets in trouble, and I sometimes have a short fuse, but he’s never heard his parents shout at each other. He’s never seen police lights at his home. He’s never gone to school with an empty stomach or with shoes that don’t match. I will move heaven and earth to make sure this child never forgets how loved he is, but that also means I had to say goodbye to a part of myself. It also meant developing an unobtainable level of perfectionism and having guilt with every decision I make.

My parents were habitually terrible at choosing and planning meals. Healthy food wasn’t around a lot because it was the 90’s, they were young, and had limited income. My mom was obsessed with dieting and was never quiet about weight. To her, you weren’t beautiful unless you were thin. I fought my own battles with eating and weight throughout my teenage years, 20’s, and still struggle now. Both of my parents had weight loss surgery in my early 30’s. My dad embraced it and tried his best to really grasp the new lifestyle. My mother lost her mind and reverted into a version of herself that was 35 years younger. She started drinking and picking up habits that were noticeably detrimental to her health. Outwardly, it was quirky and funny to those that don’t know her. To me, it was horrifying. She wasn’t the mom I knew. When she was around, it never felt like I had her attention. We fought every.single.time. she was around. She would fight with me about religion, about being overbearing with my son, about how I should live my life, and it finally disintegrated into nothingness. She told me my grandparents would have been disgusted with me when I told her I decided not to have my son baptized and that he was doomed to an after-life in hell. She eventually lost her sense of family and became absorbed in what felt best for her. She disregarded her husband, kids, and grand kids and left everything behind with the rationale being “for the sake of her health”. Her decision making spiraled and this spilled over into the law. I began to question the safety of my son having any sort of relationship with her. This broke my heart because how do you explain to your child that he shouldn’t see his grandmother? How do you keep quiet and silently pray that he doesn’t see you as the villain in this story?

The first of many final straws began in the summer of 2022, when I received a phone call from a strange man in Florida saying they had found my mother’s cell phone in an empty lot. It had her credit card attached and there had been a music festival the night before. It was 2 hours away from where she lived, and he wanted to know if I was able to contact her so she could come pick it up. In that moment, I realized that not only did I have no idea how to contact her, but I had no idea who she even was anymore. When I say I’ve spent literal years of wondering if she’s okay, I’m not exaggerating. She goes missing, comes back, downplays the situation, pretends she’s contributing to society in a decent way, and then the cycle replays itself repeatedly. This has caused a tremendous wedge between myself and my father, as he consistently tried to play devils advocate and vouch for her good intentions. I promised myself over and over again that this was the last time. This was the last time I would search for her or rekindle a relationship with my dad or offer up unnecessary forgiveness. Finally, through sheer luck and tragedy, my dad inadvertently listened to a phone conversation that proved my mother was having an affair. At 37, I’ll watch my parents go through the divorce that should’ve happened 30 years ago. I’ll watch my dad wake up every day and go to work while maintaining his dignity. In doing so, he’s fully aware he’ll never have the retirement he dreamed of or the life he had anticipated when he got older. I couldn’t be prouder of him, but I also couldn’t be more heartbroken for him. I wonder if perhaps I was the reason for his misfortune and if I hadn’t come about, his life may have been better? The tie would’ve been easier to break or perhaps it would’ve never happened at all. I consider the fact that he stayed with her for my sake, knowing she is incapable of making solid decisions for herself. I feel selfish for viewing all of this as a turning point in not only my current life, but feeling so conflicted about what is yet to come. None of this is normal. I feel like the producers of 20/20 could reach out any day and I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve become ashamed with how well I still navigate looking for her now. I still look for little flickers of information to make sure she’s alive or at least okay. Status updates, the last time anyone received a text message, literally anything to indicate that she still has a pulse. She’s become best friends with anyone that can prescribe pain medication and continues to welcome the worst kinds of people into her heart. The kind that take advantage of her and lead her into the flame she was always scared of. I will always love her. But unless I make peace with the death of her memory, I’ll harbor anger in my heart that will impact how I am as a mother. It’s a cycle that I refuse to repeat. I’ll carry the void proudly.