Just when I thought we were all climbing up again, something else happened. It was a Friday night, or perhaps Saturday (I lose track of the dates when it’s holiday time). Dad was outside gardening, for the amount of daylight in an Australian summer is ridiculous. It was just Mum and me inside, each of us doing our own thing. I was typing away on my laptop, writing yet another poem. She was in her bedroom, talking on the phone with my aunt. Mum’s family lives overseas, and she called them every weekend. So I thought that this was just another one of those catching-up conversations, and didn’t really think anything of it.
It was when I heard sobbing noises that I suspected something wrong. I found my mother, the woman who rarely cried, with swollen eyes and so many tears. I’ve never seen my mother so vulnerable and sad before, save the time at my grandpa’s funeral. Doing the only thing that seemed right, I sat down beside her and hugged her tight.
She didn’t find her voice until much later, after she went through dozens of tissues. I waited for her to tell me what’s wrong, because I knew she would. Contrary to many teenagers, I have an especially close bond with my mum. We share absolutely everything, and are the outlets for each other’s anger and troubles. My mother was and is my best friend, and as best friends do, she told me her troubles.
It turned out that depression was not done with us yet. My aunt, not the one that mum was talking to but their youngest sister, had been affected without my knowledge. She had had troubles with work for the last couple of years, and on top of that she was unable to have a baby with her husband. I only knew that she miscarried once, but it turned out that she had lost three unborn children and after the last she had been unable to cope with it.
But I could not come to terms with it. The aunt that I knew, the one that had had depression for so long, had always been happy and cheery around me. Granted, I have not seen her for nearly a year, but over the phone she sounded the same as ever. Mum told me that my aunt barely ate a thing anymore, and had lost the fighting spirit in her eyes. I’ve never hated a thing as much as I hated depression right then.