I had an interesting talk with mom yesterday. She had some feelings about the piece I wrote on my bout with depression and how I described my childhood.
“Raped at age thirteen, drugs by fourteen, a skin deformity by fifteen, promiscuity to feel beautiful, left home at seventeen and on and on. Absentee father, abusive step-father, a mother who drank.”
A mother who drank. I knew it was going to cause a reaction. But I did not leave it out, because in order to know how I arrived at certain places, you need you know where I came from.
I still smell her perfume when I curl up in bed at night and can’t sleep. I still hear her whisper “talk to God, sweetheart” and it makes me smile until I dream.
I know someone up there must be listening. My mother and I are survivors. Through everything we’ve been through together, we are stronger than ever and we share a special bond – the type of bond created by a mother and daughter who have not only seen the light, but held each other in the dark.