My mum died on the 9th of November 2010. It was a Tuesday. I saw the date on my grandma's old TV and I scribbled it down onto a little scrap of paper, and I put it in a pocket.
I don't remember whose pocket.
I remember the day my mum died. I remember my dad coming into the bedroom, face red, having just been on the phone with my mum's dad. I know he told us that my mum had died, but I can't remember what he said. I do remember him putting on our coats to protect us from the biting November winds, and I do remember him walking us around Pound Stretcher and letting me and my brother choose a toy. I chose a tub of Mr Potato head accessories. I remember sitting in my room and furiously playing with my new toy.
But I don't remember being sad.
At first, I thought my mum had got into an accident. She was in the hospital for a couple of days before she died - it seemed reasonable. Whilst she was in there, I made her a 'get well soon' card with a drawing of two plasters formed into a cross. It was supposed to symbolise my love for her, to symbolise a kiss, but now I realise it looked menacing. There are a lot of things I realise now.
I moved towns and I moved house and I moved schools and eventually, everyone knew that I didn't have a mum. The opportunity to explain myself arose at lunch time in year 4 or year 5. As we all sat on a long, wooden table in the assembly hall eating our lunch, my friend divulged that she was a vampire - twilight was in its prime - and that she enjoyed the taste of blood. So I told everyone that my mum died a bloody death and that there was a knife involved.
I don't know where I got that idea from.
Soon after, my grandma was diagnosed with cancer. Through her treatment, she lost all of her hair. I remembered seeing pictures of my mum without hair. I remembered seeing pictures of my mum wearing wigs - just like my grandma's. I decided, from that day forward, that is my new story. My mum died of cancer.
I didn't know what alopecia was.
I heard that my mum liked to drink - she drank too much and simply drowned. My mum fell in with some bad men - she was murdered. My mum slipped in the shower - she broke her neck and her spine. My mum was a horrendous driver - the airbag failed to save her.
I didn't know how my mum died.
One day, I made a mistake of my own. A silly mistake. I was around 13. My dad sat me down and had a very long talk with me and he told me, 'I'm just afraid that you'll turn into your mum'. For a while, I had no idea what that meant. But the topic of my mum was 'taboo' - so I didn't ask.
I didn't know what suicide was.
My high school held a mental health awareness day. Before then, I was blissfully unaware. But then we spoke about those who took their own lives, and everything clicked into place. My mum had killed herself. Briefly, I was relieved. Yet, that relief was short-lived. Yes, I finally had something truthful to tell people, but the weight of the truth was heavier than any story my childish mind had created.
I still didn't know anything.
I told a friend that my mum killed herself, and she asked how. To that, I didn't have an answer and over time, I had more questions that I had answers for - more than just 'how'. Why did she do it? How could she do this to us? How could my mum be so incredibly, ridiculously, insanely selfish that she was willing to turn all of our lives upside down - forever?
I didn't know anything about mental health.
I took a psychology course at A-level. I learned about depression, anxiety, psychosis. I learned about seasonal affective disorder and I learned about post-partum depression. I learned that these conditions were not common knowledge ten years ago, in 2010. I realised that my mum was ill, that she was suffering, and that her actions were one of helplessness.
And I still ask myself why. And I still ask myself how. And I still cry over the fact that I will never have a mum. But now I know that it wasn't her fault.
I just wish she knew that we could have helped her.