Chapter 1: The Illusion of Understanding

As I stared at the full moon last night, it struck me that I could only perceive one side of its beauty. The unseen half remains hidden from my view, much like the complexities of the human mind. On various days, I might catch glimpses of a person's true self, but those insights are often limited to what they choose to share.

This feeling of partial understanding resonates deeply, particularly when reflecting on my relationship with my mother. During her life, I found it nearly impossible to grasp her struggles, especially since mental health issues, like suicide, were rarely discussed openly.

My mother’s first attempt at taking her life occurred when I was just ten years old. I came home from school to a shocking sight—her unconscious body on the floor, surrounded by empty pill bottles. That incident led to her hospitalization, but even upon her return, she continued to battle depression.

Depression is a peculiar affliction. A person might appear cheerful and carefree, masking an inner turmoil that others are completely unaware of. For those who have never faced this debilitating condition, the depths of despair may seem unfathomable. It transcends the fleeting sadness we all experience; it’s a relentless, consuming force that renders the idea of "pulling oneself up by the bootstraps" utterly impossible.

This pervasive mood disorder can manifest in ways that elude comprehension until the individual is already drowning in a sea of despair. Thoughts of self-harm can surface unexpectedly, often without a clear source of pain. At times, the weight of hopelessness feels unbearable, leading to the belief that things will never improve. The relentless cycle of suffering can also foster a sense of exhaustion that makes the notion of escape—through suicide—seem like the only solution.

"I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer." — Jim Carrey

Many comedians and actors, including Jim Carrey, have openly shared their own battles with depression. Their experiences highlight a crucial truth: happiness does not stem from external achievements. Despite seemingly having it all, joy eludes them.

My mother, too, projected an image of success. She was stunning, the life of every gathering, and held a reputable job while also modeling. Her striking looks drew admiration from many, yet few knew the struggles she concealed beneath her bright exterior.

Suicide is a concept that is difficult to grasp, especially for a child. I often felt anger, questioning why she chose to leave me and whether I was not enough to bring her happiness. Those thoughts plagued me throughout my childhood.

As I grew older, she would often call me before her attempts, breathlessly uttering her goodbyes before abruptly hanging up, reigniting my anger. One fateful call led me to rush across the country to save her yet again. Upon arriving at her home, I found her unresponsive, having overdosed on medication.

In a moment of desperation, I broke into her condo and called for help. As I dragged her to the car, a mix of fear and anger consumed me. I reported the overdose at the hospital but left in a fit of rage, needing space to breathe.

When I returned the next day, she was awake and, to my shock, asked why I had embarrassed her. My emotions erupted; I firmly told her that I would no longer be her rescuer.

Years passed filled with unresolved anger until life dealt me a harsh blow. I became a young widow when my husband succumbed to cancer, leaving me with a five-month-old daughter. The ensuing grief plunged me into a debilitating depression that manifested physically, leading to hospitalization.

During this dark time, I realized that depression could be hereditary. While contemplating suicide, I made a promise to my daughter that I would not let her endure the same pain I had. Clinging to her became my lifeline as I battled my own demons.

It was only through my struggles that I began to comprehend my mother’s pain. By then, she had passed away, and I was left grappling with the loss of both my husband and my mother. Despite my age, the absence of my parents made me feel like an orphan—an overwhelming sadness enveloped me.

Gradually, I found it within myself to forgive her, although the regrets lingered. My own experiences with depression fostered empathy for those who suffer in silence. I realized that many people—friends, family, colleagues—might be battling similar demons, even if they don’t speak up.

For so long, I perceived my mother’s suicide attempts as acts of abandonment, questioning her capacity to love. I attributed it to her character, her intelligence, and her struggles. Now, I see that she was simply hurting, exhausted from her battles.

I have come to understand that everyone has moments of weakness. I, too, have felt the weight of hopelessness and the shame of concealing my own struggles with mental health.

Fortunately, I have learned to manage my depression. With the support of understanding family, I navigate the rough patches more effectively now.

Today, I experience a sense of peace rather than anger. I recognize that I could not change my mother or her struggles. I could only offer encouragement and acceptance, which I wish I had been better at during her life.

I longed to throw her a lifeline, feeling powerless in the face of her pain. I wish I could have understood the hidden complexities of her mind.

Ultimately, I have learned to forgive both her and myself.

Chapter 2: The Journey to Forgiveness

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