I Stay

I was Alison’s age when my mom left. 

That’s all I could think about when I walked out the other night.  I left the kids in the bath, their hair full of shampoo.  I’d been trying to rinse them when they thought it would be funny to kick their legs and drench me as I leaned down over the tub.

It was just too much.  Too much disrespect, too much neediness, not enough appreciation, for days and days on end.  In that moment, water dripping from my face, I felt defeated.

And so I walked away.  Left them to their dad, who was so horribly sick, he hadn’t been able to get out of bed by himself in over 24 hours.  All I could do was put one foot in front of the other.

I was Alison’s age when my mom left. 

I remember her saying that it wasn’t anything I did, she was just overwhelmed and needed to get well.  But I stood there, my hand on the front door, my keys in my hand, and I wondered if she knew, back then, how much I appreciated the things she did for me.

But did I?  Did I appreciate how hard she worked?  All the sacrifices she made for me, for us?  When she was having a bad day, did I shower her with hugs and kisses and give her some space?  Or did I pick a fight with my sister, tell her I hated what she made for dinner, refuse to go to bed, splash her as she tried to rinse my hair?

If I had paid a little closer attention, shown a little empathy, treated her with more respect, would things have been different for her?

One day, she was gone, and we had to figure out how to live our lives without her there.  Without her to clap with joy for something done well, without her cool hand in mine as I crossed the street, without her gentle voice as I fell asleep.  I never even knew she was struggling, never even noticed.

I was Alison’s age when my mom left, and I walked out the door, anyway.

But instead of getting into my car and driving away, I went to the backyard and picked up a puppy.  I breathed in that scrumptious puppy smell and rested my face on the little guy’s head and I closed my eyes.  My tears fell on his soft fur and he snuggled into my chest.

I thought of the way Alison smiles when I sing her favorite song.

The way Blythe’s eyes sparkle when we dance.

The way Jeremy takes care of me when I remember to tell him that I need help.

My girls came to find me, dressed in their pajamas, damp hair a mess of tangles down their backs. 

“We’re sorry we splashed you, Mommy,” Alison said. 

“I don’t like to make you sad, Mommy,” said Blythe.

They hugged me tight, wiped my tears and I told them that I love them.  They are kids, being kids.  Sometimes they are ornery and ungrateful, but other times they are thoughtful and kind and giving.

It was just too much, in that moment, but the truth is, this isn’t about them.  It’s about me.

For three years I have struggled with some form of depression, and all that time, in the back of my mind, I’ve thought of how my mom had to leave in order to get better.  I ask myself, is it possible to give so much of myself to their needs, every moment of the day, and still have the strength to climb this mountain? 

In my darkest moments I wonder, am I destined to follow in her footsteps?  Will my kids one day look back and remember how old they were when I left?  Struggling to find balance in their own adult lives, will they wonder if they are strong enough to stay?  Or strong enough to leave if they need to?

I stay.  No matter how hard things get for me, how low I get when my hormones are out of balance and life is overwhelming me and I feel like I have nothing left, absolutely nothing left to give them, I know I will always stay, because I am working, constantly, to get better.

I know that the darkness will pass.  Because unlike my mother before me, I have someone who understands.  Someone who has been there and had to walk away in order to get better.  She reminds me, in those moments, that I am not alone.

I stay.  I stay.  I promise I will always, always, stay.