***

Monday brought school, and school brought piles of homework and a constant influx of work, scheduled appointments, classes, settlements, and freshman events kept me so busy that I learned to forget what had happened over the summer. I made friends and made an effort to paste a smile on my face. My new positive personality was strengthened by having moved to an entirely new neighborhood. No one here had met my real mother, and no one at my new school was someone I’d known while I lived with her.

“When I think of you I think of your smile,” a new friend said.

Good. That was what I wanted.

When thoughts of Mom came, I drowned them out. I fit extra teeth in my grin, wrote, scribbled, chatted with friends about unrelated matters. But the stress of schoolwork was pushing thoughts of her out from under me. Usually, my weekly checkups with my mentor opened with a “how are you” and, from my end, a simple “I’m fine.” Until one particular day, my grief began to spew. He remained quiet as I spoke, finally responding when, after hearing what I had to say about my mother, he began telling me about his own parents, ending with a few remarks about his own mother’s death when he was in college: “Your mother is still alive, at least.”

My hands curled into fists; there was that familiar feeling of my nails puncturing the skin of my palms. What could I have said? The contempt and frustration I felt regarding my mother, the stress I had accumulated during the months I’d spent fearing her face and the very thought of her, dissipated.

My grades declined gradually and I spiralled back into guilt: for moving in with my father, for throwing away an opportunity that some didn’t have with their own mothers. My pain was not even remotely close to the pain others experienced. Who cared if I felt unsafe when I was with her? I should talk to my mother about meeting her boyfriend. After all, she was my mother. And she was alive. My mother was on earth and I was taking her for granted. I had to stop being selfish.

***

After months without it, I returned to my light journal—the same one that I used to describe the square I obsessed over during the days after my move. I stared at the light square again that night. And it looked different than it had before.

“The light,” I wrote, “looks different. Like someone moved it or something. Because I didn’t move my wall, or my room. But I kind of like it this way. Because now I don’t have to crane my head back so much just to see it from my pillow.”

Gradually, I allowed myself to admit that I liked my new life: stable and safe. Yes, my mother was alive but she was also a source of my unhappiness. For years, I’d spent my life as a daughter mothering my own mom. I’d been taking care of her, making sure that she did “the right thing,” looking out for her when she left the house because I was scared for her safety. My mother was alive but her pain made anger, sadness, and frustration part of my daily existence. Leaving her helped me experience normalcy in a household, with a father and a stepmother who loved and defended me.

My experience of taking the initiative to moving out, and of realizing the emotional cost of living with my mother was necessary, important, unique, and not to be compared—as my mentor had—to a completely different situation. That summer between eighth grade and freshman year was one that I struggled through, and that pain was real. Recognizing my own pain made me write more, and schedule more sessions with my psychologist. It was my own agency that had helped me get to the place I needed to be. Pain is meant to be felt so that the hurt can be acknowledged—and later, healed.

There’s a quote by the scientist Carl Sagan that reads: “It is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.” Here, wise ol’ Sagan refers to confronting scientific truth, but these words can apply to pain, too. Sometimes, it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid and air the wound.

As I write this now, I must admit that I still have trouble really living, even though it’s been two years since I moved out of my mom’s. My mindset oscillates between an enthused, “WHAT’S NEXT, WORLD?!” and missing her. My life as it is now—new friends, school, family—bleeds with thoughts of my old one—a time when my younger brother, mother, and I still lived together, in the quaint apartment among the trees in the hills. I still wonder if she’s OK, I still wonder if I can fix her. And convincing myself that this train of thought is silly is taking longer than I thought it would.

I remind myself of the light square on my wall, and how much clearer it looks now that it has shifted position. It reminds me that self-care is essential, not synonymous with selfishness. These reminders help, even though they’re still just that to me, reminders, and not quite truths, not yet. I know acceptance will come, and the day will arrive when I can let go of the guilt I feel about saving myself. I just need to wait. And once my wounds have closed, perhaps I’ll finally look my mother in the eyes and tell her everything—beginning with this piece of writing.

The universe might be hard to grasp, but it’s not impossible to do so. ♦