In my opinion, there is a vast difference between a mom and a mother. Obviously “mom” is just a shorter word for “mother,” but I don’t think they’re the same.
I feel that the woman who gives birth to you is your mother. Legally, logically, psychologically and physically, that woman is your mother. But it takes more than just giving birth to a child to be a mom.
A mom nurtures. A mom cares. A mom goes to dance recitals and karate tournaments. A mom helps with homework and school projects. A mom has snacks ready on the table for when you get home from school. A mom loves. A mom supports. A mom offers positive feedback and optimism. A mom introduces you to the brighter side of things. A mom invites your boyfriend over for a home cooked meal. A mom would walk a trillion miles barefoot in the snow to ensure her child’s’ safety. A mom does the simple things that children grow up
thinking they’re entitled to should be entitled to.
But I didn’t have that.
The early stages of Kim’s eternal mind games, for lack of better words, I’m not certain that she necessarily had malicious intent. My impression may be clouded because I was a child, so everything I’m about to say comes from the mind of about 5-10 year old me.
She was in pain. Or that’s what she told everyone. She was in constant pain. Joint and muscle pain. Constant complaints of her joints aching, constant engulfment in her bed, literally crying out “Why me?” Constant self pity. Trips to the doctor’s office were frequent. Trips to the pharmacy were even more frequent. If you even accidentally nudge her handbag (which was always Louis Vuitton with a matching wallet, planner and coin purses) you would hear pills rattling around. She would sometimes pass it off as if that sound was just some loose change in her bag. It was easy to differentiate the sounds. She was always sick, or that’s what she told everyone at least. Any time my sister and I wanted to go to the park or the beach or even to get ice cream up the street, she was too sick to get out of bed. Her remedy? A combination of chasing percocets with some Smirnoff and blaming my father. Oh no, it wasn’t her who took the initiative to chug a whole bottle of vodka… It was my father. It was her life. It was the one of two paths that she chose to take. It was her shitty childhood.
But realistically, it was none of those things. It was her.
It is absolutely understood that depression is a lifelong battle. It’s understood that depression is like a ghost tightening it’s grip on your neck when all you need is a hug. I get it. Because I’ve been there. No self diagnoses, it’s been medically classified that I’ve battled depression. I know first hand how difficult it can be to get out of bed some days. But do you know what I don’t do? I don’t resort to life threatening, family ruining self medicating. I don’t use drugs and alcohol to kill the pain. I man the fuck up and take everything for what it is. I had a bad day? Tomorrow has potential to be better.
Now, I don’t feel this way about every person whose depression has resulted in drug and alcohol abuse because that would be an extreme generalization and I don’t have the right. But I do feel this way about Kim. Regardless of the mass of people who were rooting for her recovery and all the chances she was given to recover and all the support she had despite how much pain she caused, she didn’t take it. She would not fucking take the help.
In the most recent years of her illness, she’s become vicious. Anyone that got in the way of her and her pills had to be annihilated. Even her daughters. Lie after lie after lie. And now we’re in court. Even without making any direct contact to Emily and I she still manages to ruin our days.