My mother loved us. I know she did. And, I guess love is enough in this case.

My mother was not well. For as long as I could remember, she was a nervous wreck. She was also a hypochondriac. If she wasn’t anxious, she was depressed. After my parents divorced, her mental health obviously deteriorated. She could barely hold a job. My mother did bookkeeping for a restaurant, and when that fizzled out, she would book keep for another business.

As part of his revenge plan, my father refused to provide us with health insurance. He also gave her $100 a week, for 2 children. Which, even in the early 90s, was not adequate. If we were with him, he’d spend money on us. But because he did not have sole custody, we paid the price.

So we were on Medicaid, welfare, food stamps the whole package. We also received donations from local churches. This bode well in our all white, middle to upper class town.

My mother enjoyed making crafts, and sold wreaths and flower arrangements for extra money. She was ill, but she did try for a while. Like I said, she loved us.

My mother couldn’t do it all. She couldn’t work, and cook/clean. She just wasn’t built for it. Now, as an adult, I get it. She was a single mother, dealing with her own mental illnesses, with no family to help her out. Times were tough.

Many days, she did not leave bed. As I became older, I took on a motherly role. I would help her style her hair and put on her make up. We’d go shopping and I’d pick out her outfits. I cleaned the house. I reminded her to do things. I became the mother. I did this all while maintaining a facade of normalcy for outsiders.

My mother was always on a myriad of medications. Once we had to travel across the country for a wedding. Her brother paid for our airfare, his daughter was getting married and he wanted us to be there. My mother was so stressed, she left all of her pills home. It was her worst nightmare.

When my parents separated, I was 5. My mother rented a beautiful 3 bedroom house. She was thin, and she had a great job. She was happy and she took care of us. We had beautiful clothes, toys, and we were comfortable. She was doing it-being an independent woman (who made her own money) and a great mom. She cooked and cleaned too. I went to kindergarten and I had a ton of friends. I remember Halloween and walking around our cute neighborhood. We finally had peace. There was no more fighting, no more hiding out waiting for the battle to be over. It was wonderful. I had a normal, mentally stable mom. I wish it lasted. It came crashing down, when my mother lost her mother, she was a mess.

I don’t know why, but my father came over to comfort her. He consoled her, and they decided to give their marriage another try. I guess they forgot about all of the vicious fights they had. Or, maybe they actually forgave one another? I don’t know. But after they got back together, my mother was never the same.

I had the opportunity to speak with a published author recently. I told her, I am not a writer, I have no formal training, but I want to share my story. She asked me: ” What is the reason for your writing?” “Do you want to make money?” I thought “Who doesn’t want to make money?” But, my reason for writing is probably therapeutic in nature. I also hope that by telling my story, I could provide hope for other people. Inspiration to go on, and to show people that you really, truly only need yourself for success in this life. I also have a lot of anger in me. I have been battling depression and anxiety since I was a child. I’ve been on every SSRI invented. I have seen a therapist on and off since I was 6 years old. But, I am tired. They say depression is anger turned inward, and I think my inside threshold for anger is at capacity. Who isn’t depressed these days? Who isn’t anxious? Who isn’t in therapy or taking medication? Therapy should be mandatory for all humans, in my opinion. But, let me stick to the theme. The theme is, you only need you. I can prove it.

Hopefully.