I’ve been writing a book for quite a while now. It’s a book about my life with an emphasis on my struggles with major depression and my story of recovery and hope. The pages are filled with memories from my childhood and how these memories shaped my core beliefs about myself and the world around me. Many of these memories involve my Mother. Many of these memories are unpleasant.
My book is not meant to be a Mommie Dearest memoir or exposé. My Mom was not perfect, far from it. But, considering the events of her life, she was amazing.
Mom was born in a small, rural town in Hungary in 1920. In 1929, the Great Depression hit hard. In 1932, her family was stricken with typhoid fever which took her Mother and her little sister. Mom was ill as well but survived. The 1930’s saw the rise of the Nazi Party, World War II, and The Holocaust. My Mom lost her dad in the concentration camps and she and her surviving sisters and brother returned home to try to start life all over again. She married my Dad in 1945, my brother Peter was born in 1946, and they came to America in 1949. A new country, a new language, a new life.
After all that, Mom raised Peter and I, provided for us, saw to it that we received an education, and set us on our paths to successful lives. Do I have some unpleasant memories? Sure I do. But I never wanted for anything.
I can’t paint a Facebook-like picture of a perfect life. I can’t say that Mom was perfect. But what I can say is that Mom was amazing, strong, and she was a survivor. I wish she was here so I could tell her how amazing she was to me.