Seeing Red

Back when I was a resident in a mental health facility, I had an extreme moment of clarity: like mother, like daughter.

My mother had been committed once too. But where my reasons were rooted in pain, hers seemed rooted in performance. She used my life as a prop to gain sympathy, and her act went too far. The psychiatrist decided keep her, to explore her, "I'm fine. No really- I don't need to be here" confession.

During her stay, she was required to keep a journal. At the end of her treatment, she had to confront the thing she feared most. Her own mother was already dead. So she chose the next best thing: me. Our sit down meeting brought out a lot of misplaced anger.

Months later, during an argument, she threw the journal in my face, as more of a "I did this because of you." Inside were her truths:

The coffee was cheap.

She considered the stay a vacation.

She wasn’t crazy — the others were. She was “superior” to them as a woman and a mother.

She often reminded me that she faked a heart attack and threatened suicide just to get a break from me. It wasn’t new behavior. This was something she did quite often. When she wasn't wishing her father and I could trade places, she was wishing she was dead, so she could be with him.

Whenever I had a chance to escape her, she found a way to sabotage it.

Just to name a few examples:

When my sister took me in after hearing about the fights, my mom scared her into sending me back home by threatening to involve our older brother.

At 16, I got accepted into a university with free room and board through work-study, plus a scholarship that would cover tuition for up to three years. All I needed was her signature. She refused.

At 17, I got pregnant and my aunt kicked me out. I moved in with a friend — he was four years older — and my mom threatened to call the police on him.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

If I was such a burden, such a thorn in her side, why didn’t she just let me go? I believe it was because I was the only one still in her corner — the only one she could use.

When I was committed, it was my husband who made the decision. He knew I was a danger to myself. As painful as it was, I knew it was the right call. I wasn’t strong enough to make it on my own.

I’d been cutting since I was twelve. Over time, it became more frequent — more visible. He saw I’d lost control. So he turned me in.

The first few days were hard. But by the end of two weeks, I felt... somewhat whole.

Here’s the thing:

The coffee was crap.

It was anything but a vacation.

I deserved to be there.

I had lost a close friend, an older brother, my little sister, and a baby. I was trapped in a dysfunctional family, entangled in codependency with my mother, and carrying deep-rooted physical trauma. All of it pointed to one truth: I needed help.

I kept a journal, but I chose to reflect on the better times — the happier moments. I was asked to write about the trials I’d faced and give them anew. Of everything I wrote, one pivotal memory stood out above the rest.

When I was about 13, my mom and I were driving from South Phoenix to Surprise. A few minutes into the drive, I started noticing all the red cars. The farther we went, the more red I saw. I pointed it out, and at first, she was irritated — now red was all she could see too. Eventually, it became hilarious. About thirty minutes in, we were laughing so hard we had to pull over. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Tears were streaming down our faces.

I had never laughed so hard with my mom.

But when we got home, she twisted it. She used it as an example of how I’d almost caused an accident. A disruption — that’s what she called me.

After that, I was afraid to engage with her at all.

How did we get here? How did we end up having the best moment of our life to this?

That’s what my journal explored: how I got here.

Then came the moment of clarity: like mother, like daughter.

But this time… as a mother, I’m going to be better.