(I hope you don't mind if I republish this from five years ago)
I work with a lot of kids. A few weeks ago, I asked some kids if they were to be picked up by their moms. One of the boys told me, "I don't have a Mom." I already knew about this, but nonetheless, I put my arm around his 7 year old shoulders and I said, "You and me both, bud. You and me both."
When I was 6 years old, my Mother made the calculated, and premeditated decision to take her own life.
The obituary reads:
November 25, 1945- October 26 1976
"LJ C____ passed away after a long illness."
The illness was drug addiction, alcoholism, and depression. It's possible that an argument for the misuse and misunderstanding of early anti-depressants might be made.
The certificate of death tells the story in a more honest and less euphemistic manner.
Box 29A Conditions which gave rise to the immediate cause
Amphetamine, cocaine and tranylcypromine poisoning
As a surgical assistant, she was probably aware of the interactions between the name brand drug, Parnate (tranylcypromine) and amphetamines she took. In fact, I'm certain she knew.
Box 33 Specify
Suicide
Yes, it was a very long illness.
Maybe being the oldest of 4 children in a house with an overbearing Father was a source of discomfort for her. It does indeed place a lot of stress on a young person to be counted on as a secondary parent in the home.
Maybe she was hurt by her family's decision to send her far across the country to give birth to a child as a teen mother. Last year, I came across a box of her old things. In the box was an envelope full of her hair. I have numerous locks of her hair. It was a deep red. A full and rich red that I don't see naturally on many heads. In that envelope was an adoption certificate from when she had given her first child up for adoption after being sent from Iowa to California to give birth in "secrecy."
It wasn't uncommon for families with the means to send their pregnant girls away on vacation. This all happened before legal access to abortion. Her family would become familiar with teen pregnancy. There would be other teen pregnancies that would be the responsibility of the boys. My grandmother told me that they kept an attorney for issues like this.
Maybe it was the inadequate awareness of the severity of depression, and the often concurrent drug and alcohol addiction. In the inscription in her post rehab journal, her roommate from one of her stays in rehab tells her:
L-
It's really been neat having you as a roommate and especially as a friend.
I love your children. You have two of the neatest kids in the world. In alot of ways I'd like to be like you when I get older. Your really a neat person and I wish you all the luck in the world. You have alot going for you and I hope you make the best of it.
I really don't think there's anything out there you can't handle.
I wish you luck. Love, D.
Her journal tells the story of her difficulties. Just like it most situations, however, it's the spaces that really tell the story. The long spaces of no writing in the journal. If you aren't following your plan, maybe you don't want to tell your journal. The apologetic tone for her lack of writing tells the story. Each day is marked as a Valium or non Valium day. Each day is marked as an alcohol or non-alcohol day. Much of the journal tells the story of her relationships with a careless man. Thankfully, I suppose, I don't have any memory of this man.
On December 15, she wrote:
Haven't writen in you for along time. I don't think I'm doing to well. maybe cuz of chritmas.
Who knows?
Fuck it!!
There are two entries following this. The final entry comes some 3 months later and ends with:
You know I can't even remember much about christmas. Isn't that a trip!
I don't have many memories of the final days of the life of my Mother. We were the most important things in her life. As is the case with addiction, however, it is difficult to tell what is most important. The men in her life were abusive, drunk, and irresponsible.
One moment that will always be there for me is the time my brother tried to teach me as a 3 or 4 year old how to ride his bike. He put me on the bike and sent me down the hill in front of our house. Not being able to reach the pedals, I ran full speed into a car. I cried. Someone grabbed me from behind to console me. I shook that person loose while yelling, "No, I want my Mom." That was her, of course. I assume she held me until I was all better, but I still remember her arms around me that day.
I remember a dream I had about her as a 5 year old. She was being chased and tormented by some unknown attacker. This is a memory of palpable fear.
I believe I remember the last time I saw her. She had driven us from California to Pasco, Washington so that we could stay with my Dad. He was the adoptive Father of my Brother. My Brother would ultimately be the greatest influence in my life. He would be the unwilling caretaker of his 5 years younger sibling.
I have only read her letter once. She left 4 or 5 page note behind as evidence of her choice to try again to take her life. This note was kept from us until we reached 18.
On the outside of the envelope, she wrote that she thought the kids were happier with their Dad.
I recall only that the sun was shining, the house was white, and it was across the street from a church. It's possible that this is a mixture of images from different times, but that's how the scene looks to me now. I remember only stepping down to from the big yellow pickup truck onto the blacktop road strewn with gravel from the shoulders.
The truck seems huge in hindsight. I have a view of myself standing on the gravel, looking back into the passenger cabin of the truck. I don't see her seated behind the wheel.
Finally, I remember when they told me as a child that my Mother had died. I don't think I asked anything further. For some reason, I associate McDonald's food with the moment. The room was white. There were adults who had gathered with the unenviable task of informing the children that their Mother had died. I guess they probably figured that our sadness would be tempered by food. It's like when we bought our son a bike to tell him he was moving to a new school. Except that it wasn't like that at all. We wouldn't find out until each of us reached 18 that she had taken her own life. This is despite the fact that in her suicide letter she left specific directions to never tell the children about the means of her passing.
The reason I titled my diary the way I did, is that as I moved from young boy, to teenager, to young man and beyond, my friends' Mothers always expressed a particular interest in me. I'm sure that a big part of what they saw when they looked at me was that kid without a Mom. They were always being sure that I had enough to eat. As a young adult, I would always be invited to family events with them. I think they were impressed that a child without a mother, and who lived fairly meager life would be so expressive, happy, and joyful.
As a matter of fact, as a teacher, I had to begin working with kids at some point. When I was 19 or 20, I lived across the street from a school with a daycare center in it. I applied for a position at this daycare/extended day kindergarten. Eventually, I would be hired. I had no relevant professional experience (not that it's really required to work in a daycare), and I didn't know a thing about resumés or interviews, so I came up with some of the most important people in my life to list as referrals on the job application. Later, I asked the director why she hired me when I had no prior experience.
"Because all of your referrals were moms of your friends."