At 36, I read my mother’s suicide note for the first time while making chocolate chip protein pancakes for my daughter.
It was literally difficult to read. It was written in a hotel memo pad 31 years ago, and was photographed as evidence after it was discovered. The photos were kept in a filing cabinet until the case was closed when the notes were converted to microfiche. submitted. The notes were printed on white copy paper and handed to me.
At the kitchen counter, I flipped through pancakes and flipped through files to read the housekeeper who discovered my mother’s dead body, the interviews the police gave the family, and the autopsy report. Her daughter was playing with Lego blocks at the kitchen table. I had planned to wait until she went to school to read her report, but she was overwhelmed by her urge to find out about her mother’s death many years later.
My mother died when I was 5 and my sister was 2. It was then that her mother was told that she had a “brain disease.” I think it was the way experts advised my father to explain mental illness to a child as young as myself. I remember being in kindergarten with the school social worker. It depicts a pink vague brain shape speckled with graphite gray.
My father was never shy about his affection for my mother. For each of his anniversaries he writes a column with poems, song lyrics and words about how much he misses her and how proud she is of us. When I was younger, these columns were published in local newspapers. In recent years, it’s morphed into a moving Facebook post with photos of grandchildren she’ll never see.
As a child, my father would often take us to the cemetery to “see” my mother. Her sister and I took turns picking flowers in an upturned urn on her tombstone and cuddling up with a little tanned teddy bear he told us belonged to her. The mother’s side of the closet has been filled with clothes for decades, and mementos of her mother still remain at her father’s house. We talked about loss, but we never really talked about the woman, her life, and her death beyond the surface.
At some point in my childhood, I don’t remember the specific conversation, but I must have gotten nervous and asked more questions about her. That’s when I learned that her mother committed suicide at a hotel near her house. No further details were disclosed. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t ask more questions in the intervening decades. What more do you need to know and what is it good for?
As a child, I was often upset that my mother didn’t have me as a “room mom” or to celebrate Mother’s Day. I got pissed off when I thought it was my mother who signed it. But as I grew up, I got better grades, received a college scholarship, met and married an amazing partner. It didn’t seem to matter that I don’t have a mother – u FebUntil I’m alone
My daughter was born healthy, beautiful and with colic. She cried almost constantly for most of her 6 months. Nothing I did seemed to help—breastfeeding, babywearing, multiple trips to the pediatrician. The screams accumulated in my psyche as evidence that I was unworthy of being a mother. Like her mother, I began to have fleeting thoughts of wanting to leave. I also wanted her to be there to help and reassure me.
I got through the first few months of not fantasizing about starting a new life by writing to my daughter. Stacked. I wrote cards and letters and cried to them while she cried in the background. I have written to her daughter many times about how special she is, the joy she brings to our family, my hopes and dreams for her future.
I sealed the note to my daughter in an envelope and stacked it in the pink safe I ordered for this purpose. Even if I find out I can’t be here, at least my daughter will have tangible proof that her mother loves her.
Eventually, the crying subsided, and along with it, the thoughts of parting grew.
As my daughter grew, I was in awe of her empathy, compassion and creativity, but at the same time felt undeserved of the privilege of being her mother. It was made. I enrolled her in private school, fed her fruits and veggies, minimized her screen time, we moved to a bigger house, lit her up on her wheeled scooter and adopted her guinea pig. Checking all the boxes kept feelings of inadequacy at bay for a while.
Then came the COVID-19 pandemic, and we experienced the same shock and upheaval that many families around the world experienced. For my daughter, the stress was probably made worse by me working as a nurse in the emergency department and her husband working in law enforcement. Again, nothing I did or tried could fix her feelings.
Out of desperation, I resumed writing. I signed up for a writing workshop and wrote a 78,717 word novel. It’s about a woman who has lost her mother and is trying to raise her daughter during difficult times. After months of revising drafts and trying to write the happy ending I wanted for my character and for me and my daughter, I gave up. and my relationship with my late mother, that is, my relationship with myself. I was finally faced with the fact that writing the ending required me to look back at my beginnings, my relationship with my mother. Perhaps there is wisdom in unraveling our history.
I began my journey by obtaining investigation files and court records for my mother’s death. In hindsight, it seems like it was better to look through police files than to be honest with her family about who her mother was.
When I finally read my mother’s suicide note for the first time, five words jumped out at me.
“I was a terrible mother.”
I was surprised at how relieved I was instead of being shocked or saddened by her words. The words “I’m a terrible mother” have been in her daughter’s mind all her nine years of life. Thirty-one years after her mother’s death, here was the physical evidence of the thread that connects us over the decades.
A few months later, I noticed there was additional text at the bottom, which I could barely understand. I had to refer to the renderings entered in the police report. It was transcribed with my initials, then my sister’s initials, and then “I love you and I did my best for you.”
Her last words were that she loves us and wants to do what is right by us. But now that I have known her daughter twice as long as her mother has known me, the words and their intentions on that scrap of paper do not make up for my loss.
My heart aches for how sick my mother must have been, but her actions sent shockwaves of trauma with intergenerational repercussions. may be part of the reason why he feels so deeply about the scars of the world.
But the moral of my mother’s story seems simple. My existence means more than perfection to my child. I hope that the more courage I have to ask the tough questions and speak and write honestly, the more my daughter and I can undo the legacy of “horrible mothers,” break the cycle, and create a better future.
If you or someone you know needs help, dial 988 or call 1-800-273-8255 in order to National Suicide Prevention LifelineYou can also get help by text by visiting . Suicide Preventionlifeline.org/chatAdditionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at: dontcallthepolice.com. Outside the United States, International Suicide Prevention Association.
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