Something to Write About
A mother copes with her daughter’s depression by writing.
“This will give you something to write about,” she said. The glare in her eyes, the set of her mouth curved in the smile she learned from her father, made it sound like if I did write about this, she would consider it a betrayal, an abandonment of decorum and manners; that if I took pen to paper to sort through her suicide attempt, deal with the guilt and the shame, the “what kind of mother are you?” questions that are unspoken between us, and float around her host of therapists, the blame so satisfyingly placed on “the MOTHER” — what if I did?
What difference would it make to the list she has compiled of my crimes against her?
As I muddle over her statement while washing the dishes even six months after I first heard her say it, I sense my mother’s presence. ”I’ll give you something to cry about,” and she always did. Or a similar warning issued, “Just wait until your father comes home,” clichés with memory. These statements make me shake even today, spoken like the growl of an animal out of control; abuse was forthcoming. The real torture was not knowing what form it would take.
But Boo’s statement, I’ve called her Boo since she was a baby, was mixed. Hers felt more pleading. I intuited it with my mother senses, with the skills years of therapy taught me to cope with my past in order to prevent it from hurting my own children — this sense knows she envies and resents me going back to work on my MFA in writing when clearly she is the more gifted writer. She’s too young to know that we can both be good at what we do.
I want to share my process with her, bond with her like Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Taylor Kidd. Instead, her bitterness eats away at the strongest strings that link us. We severed apart in that moment.
And yes, dear daughter, I am writing about you, drinking about you, exercising about you, flopped in the chair watching marathons of House about you. I walk your dog, who unlike you, adores me, who I let you have to help you feel better, who loves me more now because you ignore him. I have taken over his care, not as some way to prove you incapable, but rather I stepped up when you were busy — to help. He is a first thought in my morning, after you. I am blamed for that too.
I write because we can’t talk. I write because that’s what I’ve always done with these secret crises. I write, father — mother — friend — God. These pages fill all those roles for me, now I will add daughter to the list.
I’ll give you something to cry about —
I’ll give you something to write about — they are the same statement.
Catherine Berresheim earned her MFA in creative nonfiction from Spalding University School of Creative and Professional Writing. She is an associate professor of English for Volunteer State Community College. Catherine also volunteers as the lead facilitator for Reciprocal Education and Community Healing (REACH), held on death row at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution.
