Burning Beneath

It’s a known fact that most people cherish their mothers, whether they are still with them or have already gotten their wings. But I’ve also come to realize that not all mother-child relationships fit into the neat, sentimental mold that society expects. Love is not always simple. It is shaped by the environment we grow up in, the experiences we share, and the wounds we carry.

My journey with my mother was an adventure—not the kind you read about in storybooks, full of joy and wonder, but something far more complex. I can’t say if it was happy, sad, ugly, or just… an adventure. It was what it was. And now, at 51, with decades separating me from my original world, away from familiar faces and places, all I have left are my memories.

My mother was schizophrenic. From as early as I can remember, she was in and out of mental institutions in a country that saw people like her as lost causes, treating them as something less than human. I remember visiting her in those places—the grim, sterile atmosphere, the weight of silence mixed with occasional outbursts. I hated those visits. My grandfather used to take me, but I never wanted to go. Even when she was home, I kept my distance, detaching myself from her presence as much as I could.

I was around five or six when I first noticed her talking to people who weren’t there, smoking constantly, her short hair in disarray, lost in conversations with ghosts only she could see. Sometimes she fought with them, sometimes she laughed, sometimes she raged. It was unsettling.

One memory stands out vividly. I was about eleven. My routine was always the same—come home from school, play for a bit, eat lunch, then do my homework under my aunt’s supervision. But that day, my mother decided, out of nowhere, that she wanted to take charge. She tried to force me to sit down and do my homework. It was so unlike her, so out of the ordinary, that I instinctively pushed back.

“You have no right to tell me what to do,” I said, defiant.

And then she slapped me. But it wasn’t the slap that stayed with me—it was how she did it. It was hesitant, almost reluctant, as if something inside her was holding her back. Even in her illness, even in her broken state, I could feel it. That slap wasn’t meant to hurt me. It was love. A love she didn’t always know how to express.

I looked her in the eyes and said, “You have no right to hit me.” Then I turned and walked away.

As the years passed, I witnessed things I could never erase from my memory. Horrible things. Not done to me, but to her. The world was cruel to my mother. Yet, through all of it, she always protected me. Even in her darkest moments, when she was spiraling into rage, breaking glass, lashing out—she never touched me. I was the only one she never hurt. And now, looking back, I understand. That was her way of loving me, in the only way she knew how.

Then came the day she disappeared. It wasn’t unusual for her to check herself into a hospital after an episode, and we would always find her again. But this time was different. This time, she never came back.

1995.

My aunt and I searched for her. We went to hospitals, morgues. We looked at photos of the unclaimed, people dressed in ragged clothes, their faces frozen in time. And among them, I saw her. I knew it was her. I didn’t need confirmation. Some things you just feel in your bones.

And so, to my mother, wherever she is—I know you loved me. And I am so sorry that I didn’t show you the love and respect you deserved.

I hope I can make it up to you in another life.