🎧 Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured.
At my mother’s apartment, I knock. It seems presumptuous to use my key. We say hello and hug awkwardly. She still feels fragile. All I want is for her to be better, for both of us to be better.
Her most defining feature is her eyes. They always seem to be moist with compassion yet attentive to whatever she’s reading or whoever is speaking. The exhaustion in them, which was so pronounced when I moved out two months ago, has faded but isn’t entirely gone.
The apartment smells of her. I hang my coat in the closet, where all my coats used to hang. It looks barren.
By the time I moved out, my departure was long overdue. No matter how much those of us with mental illness might need social support, it’s unfair to ask one person to provide it. She spent five years hearing me talk about my diagnoses and medications and symptoms, accompanying me to the emergency room, and being on suicide watch. It’s not that I didn’t help her during the years I lived in her spare room, but it was nothing compared to what she did for me.
The families have it the hardest.
We sit in the living room. As she speaks, her voice shakes. As always, she looks put-together and dignified but fragile. While I was breaking down, I broke something in her.
To read or listen to the complete Cured, choose the discounted annual subscription for $30—about the price of a hardcover book. Each purchase brings awareness to mental health recovery.
You can also gift ‘Cured’ to someone in need.