dear mother, thank you for your eyes

anniversary of my mom’s passing today so sharing the piece i wrote soon after she passed away.

i wonder if our mothers' voices are our first voices. the voice we hear in the womb we think is our own. they only can exist between a child who once lived inside a mother, never go away.

still thanking her for my eyes.

KB

My eyes are usually the first thing that someone compliments me on. And I know you shared them with me. Ever changing and green and blue, the seas of you and me glowing around the ambers of yellow on the outside. I always liked knowing we had the same eyes- feeling more connected in saying they are my mom’s eyes the words would roll off my tongue and no pain would grimace over me, only the ever-knowing joy of connection. We shared something beyond time and place.

Mental illness has a way of snuffing out the light of all the good. I know that happened with you. There were times I kept you a secret because I had to. There were times when I celebrated you. I always had your picture up in my room, at my office, and still do. There were times you had to live in the front of my head, other times in the back of my head, all so I could keep going. I relished in hearing stories told of you. I replayed our best memories in my head. I sometimes wondered if I would run into you. I loved you from afar the best I knew how. So today and every day forward, I will let the light of you to glow and I honor the good of you, the parts that live in me.

Dear mother, thank you for your sharp and witty mind that you shared with me and that still lives on in me. I know part of my intelligence and wit, you passed on to me. You were brave. I honor you for refusing to stop breastfeeding me at a restaurant even though the owners threatened to kick you out. You gave me the gift of bravery and fierceness and standing up when you are scared. You would let me paint anywhere I liked, even when the water colors were painted all over my face and you would run to get a camera to capture the moment so we could laugh about it later. You and my father called me a “bag lady” because of all the bags I carried around even as a toddler; I still carry bags around with me everywhere I go now.

Dear mother, you would let me play in mud in the backyard, or swing on my tree swing, or ride around on my banana seat bike. You gave me freedom. And fun. Lots of it. You had an ability to be in the moment that caused others to gravitate toward you and your fun. It made parts of my childhood really shine. Every cousin I told of your passing said — every memory of your mom — I remember her being so fun. And you were.

Dear mother, you had a laugh that was contagious. We used to dance around the kitchen cooking special chicken dinners and arguing over who would do the wishbone wishing with me — you, or Dad, but I always got to make a wish. Thank you for letting me dream. I remember when I won a coloring contest and you called the five and dime to pick it up. They had already tossed it, but you didn’t take that and demanded they find it so you could put it on the refrigerator in celebration and share it with others. I know you were proud of me. I remember when you told me about Tim’s coming, and the joy on your face as we walked down the gravel road to the main street outside our house.

Dear mother, thank you for the love of water. Some of our best days were along water. If it be the pool at the Boys and Girls Club down the street from our house, the beaches where we could swim like Shell Beach and I would dry off in the sand, or Pt. Reyes where you and Dad met and we would just watch the waves. I remember the swimming pools, oceans, lakes, and rivers all with you. The waters of us. You always seem most free there. In and out of the water. Usually in the water. Moving as if you belonged there. Your love of water became mine. Swimming hard and fast on the swim team and lifeguarding. Even now, my goal every day is to get to a body of water even if just a soak in my tub. The beach has always been my safe and grounding place too. Every chance I get, I will go to the beach. You asked us for a family reunion on the beach in a letter long ago, and we are finally going to have it for you.

Dear mother, you gave me and my brother the same old-looking Irish hands of hard work. When I look down at them, I think of you. You gave me my long thick hair even though my father thinks he offered his up for me. People say how much we look alike. I always thought that was special. When I look in the mirror, I could still see you.

And you gave me your eyes. Not just the greens and ambers. Eyes to see the world and be connected to it. You were and are my teacher of how to connect to others, to feel empathy. That leading with humility and connection is the only way. It is because of you that I never walk by someone in pain and don’t feel something, that 20 years of urban living has never hardened this beating heart. It is because of you that I understand and connect to my students and my lifelong work of supporting others. It is because of you that I always see the potential and know the importance of healing. It is because of you I know the importance of showing up for those in need. It is because of you that I take such good care of myself. It is because of you I know how important it is.

Dear mother, you might not have been able to live all the dreams you dreamt, dreams you deserved, dreams we both deserved. But know that you gave birth to a daughter who is. You gave me these eyes to see the world with, and not just see it from afar as an observer, but to see, feel, hurt, help and really feel. I am a willing participant in our shared humanity.

Dear mother, thank you for our eyes.

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Donations can be made in my mother’s name, Colleen Rose Sullivan, to UCSF Department of Psychiatry by making your check out to ‘UCSF Foundation’ with ‘Dept. of Psychiatry in memory of Colleen Rose Sullivan’ in the memo section or in an accompanying letter, or online at makeagift.ucsf.edu. We wish to honor her life by supporting research to find better ways of treating mental illness so that others like her can live a more complete life, and that families like ours will not have to struggle.