She is my superhero...

My mom is a superhero. 

I know that everyone says that. But I want to tell you all about her. This is why she is better than a marvel superhero. 

She had me at 18 with a man that was very bad. She found out he had been touching me inappropriately just before I turned two. She took him to court with a lawyer that took her case pro bono after meeting bio dad and hated him on the spot. His rights were terminated. Mom took me and ran with everything we had. It was legal, but only just. She would spend the next 22 years raising me herself in constant fear that he would find us.  When he died when I was 24, she cried with big shaky gasps and relief. I never realized how truly terrified she was that he would find me. I’ll never forget that when I told her he had died and she literally thanked God, and started crying, how much it hurt to realize how protected I had been from her fear of him finding me. I will forever be thankful for her allowing me to maintain what was left of my childhood innocence for as long as she did. 

Growing up she was strong and proud. Even though we didn’t have much money, and I wore old discount store clothes; I was always clean and well fed. 

At six I became sad from daily nightmares and what I later discovered was complex ptsd fallout from what my biological father had done. Mom did everything she could to pull me out of the rut. She read to me every night, encouraged me to turn to art and writing and would leave signs for me to find everywhere telling me how amazing and incredible I was. She was kind and patient when I would have tantrums and didn’t develop as quickly as my peers. 

At twelve, when I started to self harm, my mother did everything she could to make sure I knew that I mattered. Though she was frustrated and saddened and didn’t entirely understand, she did her best to meet me where I was. She took me to so many therapy sessions and my mental health never took a back seat to our still struggling finances. 

At seventeen I lost someone very important to me. I literally watched them die on my living room floor. A week later I delivered his eulogy at his funeral. That was the first time I was truly lost. She drove me to the hospital. That was my first psychiatric stay. I was so terrified that when she was leaving I said such terrible things that my mind can’t even recall it now. Just to protect myself from the pain I inflicted. She cried but when I came back to myself she accepted my apology without hesitation. She accepted all my ugly without reservations. 

At twenty two I completely lost myself. She lost sight of me. I did a lot of stupid, hurtful things. She did lots of research. She went on two retreats with NAMI to learn how to reach me. When I finally came back to myself we both cried. She read so many books, considered going to school to become a psychologist, all so she could reach me. I will never forget the day that I realized this. That because I had strayed so far into my mental illness she was going through so much education and community building and it was like that switch that had flipped two years earlier…. the one that made me almost unrecognizable…. it just flipped off and I was me again. She literally loved me back to myself. She found me trapped inside my own darkness and showed me towards the light. 

I’ve spent the last three years constantly afraid of disassociation again. Each time I bring it up she calmly reassures me that I am ok. Everything will be fine. She says she got me out once, she can do it again. Man, I’m lucky to have someone who loves this big. 

When covid hit my mental health started to decline again and she diligently brought me back to myself as only she can. She helped me find a routine and constantly pointed out that I wasn’t the only one struggling. She held space for me when my carefully crafted coping skills were stripped from me thanks to social distancing. She literally held me and cried with me. She also got me to laugh through the tears. 

Looking back at my life with her, my best friend and biggest supporter, I know that she is either a superhero or an angel. I don’t hold aspirations of greatness or harbor a belief that I was meant for something more, but I do know that because of her I am still here today. Because of her I am still choosing to fight to keep my sanity and not to succumb to the demon I constantly battle. Because of her I am now thriving once again even during a global pandemic. When I look into her eyes I see the hope I had forgotten at six years old. The hope that maybe I already am somebody. When I look at her I know that at least while she is alive, I am never really alone, and I will always have someone in my corner to lift me up when I get down. 

I hope to one day be half the friend she is to me. 

I hope to one day be half the person she is. 

My mother is my superhero. She doesn’t need the cape or mask. She has a fierce tenacity and grit that can outshine any fancy costume. She has the soul of a saint and the spirit of dragons. She is kind and strong. My mother is just A GOOD. A good friend, a good mother, a good daughter, a good teacher, a good Christian, a good person, a good hero. My mother is my superhero. I am thankful for her everyday and I am glad she is mine.