that day. It felt like I was living outside my own body, watching everything go on below me and being unable to stop it.
I don’t think I meant it. I thought I did at the time. But I think what I really wanted was to stop feeling so trapped.
Because sometimes darkness is crushing. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe, or think, or live.
I wanted the darkness to stop more than I wanted to die.
But I guess those are the only words I knew how to use. And now they’re haunting me because they’re the only words Mom remembers.
“That’s not something you need to worry about,” I say quietly. “Feeling like you want to die isn’t the same thing as planning to die. I was depressed—and I’m not anymore.”
“But I do worry. And I don’t think it’s that simple. Right before November, you were all over the place. You were barely sleeping. You were making all these big plans—plans to travel, and start a blog, and learn how to cook—it was like you were living in this bubble of chaos that only you could understand. And then it felt like the next day you were barely eating. You lived in your bed. You wouldn’t hang out with Chloe. Your room was a mess. You were angry all the time.” I can practically feel Mom shaking her head through the phone. “It’s like you were just giving up. It was like one day you had a million reasons to live, and the next day you couldn’t even think of one. So yes, I’m worried. I’m worried you’re going to crash again and I won’t be there to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay,” I say. “You’re not listening to me. Being depressed is just something I deal with from time to time. And okay, maybe it’s not normal for some people, but it’s normal for me. And I have it under control. I’m coping.”
“But it shouldn’t be normal—” Mom starts to say.
“It’s normal for you,” I bite back too quickly.
“What are you talking about?” Mom’s voice recoils.
“You’re just like me. You have highs and lows and nothing in between. I mean, how many times have Dad and I found you obsessively cleaning the house, or redecorating on a whim? I remember when I was little, you’d have these phases where you’d get into baking. And you wouldn’t just bake a cake, or a tray of cookies—you’d bake everything, all at once. You’d use up every single dish in the house, and Dad would come home, and you’d just laugh like you got carried away. And you’d have sad days, too. Days where you wouldn’t come out of your room. Days where you were too tired to hold a conversation. Even days when you told Dad you wanted to die.” I wait, because I know I’ve brought up something Mom doesn’t think I even remember.
Everything goes hollow between us. Sometimes silence really is louder than words.
“I never said that.” She sounds uncertain, either because she doesn’t trust my memory or she’s not sure if she can trust her own.
“You did,” I say. “You told Dad you wanted to die. You were in your room, crying, and you thought I was in the living room watching a movie. You didn’t think I heard you, but I did. And I worried about you too—worried that my mom was too sad, and that you would never stop being sad. But you did, eventually. And then you’d bake cakes and laugh and make big plans just the same way I do. And I realized that was just your normal, the way it’s mine.”
Even though Mom and I have a million differences, some parts of us are the same. I wish she could see that.
If she could relate to me, she might actually understand me.
“I—I don’t even remember saying that. I really don’t.” I hear Mom shuffle, and a long pause follows. “I’m sorry if I scared you when you were little. I didn’t mean to. I guess sometimes I get so caught up in what I’m feeling that I forget who else is watching. Who else might be affected.”
I grimace. I know the feeling. “It’s okay, Mom. I just want you to see that we’re not so different. And you wouldn’t want Popo controlling your life or acting like you couldn’t function normally on your own—or like your normal isn’t good enough. Because I don’t want to have the same relationship with you that you have with Popo.