Liam went on teaching and painting, while I took my mother from hospital to hospital. We sold the cattle at home, one by one. But her condition never stabilized. Sometimes, she would cling to me and cry. Other times, she would hit me or scream at me when her illness flared up.
The house was filled with bottles of psychiatric medication back then.
There were countless moments when I wanted to end my life. But every single time, I forced myself to keep going because Mom still needed me.
And then, eventually, she couldn’t fight anymore. Her mind cleared again, just like the mother I remembered.
On her deathbed, she held my hand and said, “Sweetheart, you’ve suffered enough. Mom can’t keep dragging you down. I don’t blame you. Your father and I never blamed you. When I’m gone, let the past go. Live your life well. And don’t sacrifice your whole future for someone like him.”
Another ten years passed. I walked out of that snowy night of pain. I cried every tear I had left.
I told myself I was going to live differently—better.
But at my mother’s funeral, I was diagnosed with cancer.
“All those years of psychiatric medication harm the body. This isn’t unexpected,” they told me.