On Shame

Written on June 14th, 2016:

My mother Deborah has been dead for about a week after fighting depression and mental illnesses for over twenty years. Her death was planned, meticulous, and intentional. It is an indescribable feeling to try and balance my anger over choice she made, and my empathy that comes from knowing what she was going through.

I am not ashamed of how my mother died; I am ashamed of the world that she had to live in. I’m ashamed that she was constantly bombarded by friends, family, church, and the media who minimized her pain, who told her to simply work harder or suggested that she simply try to become happier. Though she had people around her who understood and adapted, she also had many people around her who could not or would not try to understand her life experiences and her brain chemistry. That is inexcusable. I’m ashamed that she felt she had to suffer silently, had to feel like she couldn’t reach out for help at the end.

I’m ashamed that we stigmatize mental illness. I’m ashamed that we don’t take care of our community. I’m ashamed that we don’t teach our children how to handle complex emotions. I’m ashamed that I will forever dread having conversations about my mom’s death because I don’t want her final act to overshadow who she was before then.

I’m proud of the long fight that my mother put up. I’m proud that the very last thing she did before being officially declared dead was to donate her liver, kidneys, corneas, and tissue. I’m proud that she instilled her stubbornness and fight in me. I am proud she was my mother.