How I lost my mom long before she died

At 72, I am finally finding forgiveness for my mother... and myself.

A decade ago, I revealed in an essay¹ that I suffer from recurring bouts of depression. I was 62 at the time, and I published the essay with trepidation about revealing something so personal—something I’d kept a secret for so long. I was startled—and gratified—by the reactions. One longtime friend stopped me on the street to cry out, “You are so outgoing, I never knew you were depressed!” Other friends and acquaintances thanked me for talking about a taboo subject² and explaining to non-sufferers what depression feels like. A few months later, I took the train to Washington DC to visit my elderly parents. Looking out the window, I realized that my mother had never said anything about the article. 

Fast-forward ten years, and my mother has since died. When she did, she took with her answers to difficult questions that I was always too afraid or too shy to ask. Now, one year after her death, I am feeling brave enough to work out some answers to these questions… even if they are part conjecture.