My Mother’s Daughter

By Kayla Marie Jorgensen

I was always told that I am my mother’s daughter.

As a kid, you think, “Well, duh?”

But, as time went on, I grew up. That phrase started to terrify me. It felt like being locked in a small space in the dark with no one to come find me. I felt trapped by those words.

My mom showed signs of schizophrenia long before I understood what they were. She went through so many doctors, tests, medications and diagnoses before they landed on this illness. An illness that only affects 0.3% of people, and out of all the people in the world, MY mom had to be one of them.

Kayla (the author) as a baby with her mom, Lisa

I was angry. Angry at the world, angry at whatever spiritual or religious being decided to put this on her. Decided to take her away from me. I was a teenage girl calling the police on my mom, finding knives under her pillow. She had a habit of calling my school or work to tell them something was coming for me. She spoke about not wanting to be alive any longer, that the illness was winning.

Anger, fear, and embarrassment fueled my days.

I always knew it wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t make it any easier. It’s hard to see your mom that way, this is the woman who put me in this world. I didn’t want to hate her, I wanted her to be there. I wanted her to be my mom.

My mom, Lisa Marie, passed away on her 54th birthday. August 3rd 2020. But I was grieving her long before she left the world physically. I was 19 when she died, but I was a child when I lost her to this illness. Movies, TV shows, books, even people in your life prepare you to lose your parents when you’re older. No one prepares you for losing one of your parents as a teenager. You expect your parents to be there for all the monumental moments, graduations, weddings, when you decide to grow your family. But my mom won’t be. No matter how many good things happen in my life, they won’t bring her back. It’s a type of pain you only know when you go through it, and I truly don’t wish it on anyone.

It’s been a few years, I did a lot of the things I told her I was going to do. I graduated college, I met a boy. I’ve had time to understand my grief. Somewhat.

For a long time, I couldn’t let go of the anger. I didn’t want to. I felt that was the only thing I had left of her, and if I truly let it go, she would really be gone. I’ve grown past that, at least most days. At 25, I find myself more sad than anything. I mentioned the big things, but it’s the little things that really get you. I expect to be sad on my birthday or Christmas, but it’s the random Tuesday morning when I hear a song that reminds me of her. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac is always the culprit. My heart hurts when seeing a mom and her daughter out to get ice cream, or when something happens and I want to tell her about it so bad just to hear what she would say. I love my dad, I love my brother, I love my friends. But there are just some things you just want to talk to your mom about, some things you truly need her for and I never got the chance.

There’s a part of me that misses the days after she passed. People seemed to care more, checking in on me when the wound was fresh. But the world kept turning. Even though the clock stopped in my mind. Everyone moved on, but me.. I can’t and I won’t. It may get “easier” whatever that means, but it sticks to you like glue.

I think it’s important to talk about the loved ones we have lost. There’s a phrase I see often. I’m not sure who was the first to say it. “You are not truly dead until your name is spoken for the last time.” So, I will talk about my mama. The good and the bad, until I see her again. I believe her story is unfinished. I believe my brother and I are here to tell it, by living. By living our lives. I don’t know what I believe happens when you pass, but I know my mom is with me. I know it. I see her in the color maroon, I see her in the waves that crash on the shore, I see her in my sweet baby niece, I see her when I look into the mirror.

Mama, even after everything I will always save you a seat. Maybe death brought you the peace you so desperately needed. I’m still looking for my peace in all this. But I just want you to know, I love you so much. And I am so proud to be called my mother’s daughter.