my mother was a severe and suicidally-inclined depressive. when my sister and I were young we shared a bedroom. sometimes while we slept, my mother would come into our bedroom and sit in the nursing chair that still sat in the corner, and quietly weep. i woke many times to the eery heaving figure of my mother, bent in a chair, crying hopelessly at the foot of my bed and almost without sound.
i can understand some of the tangled reasons that might have led her there in the dark watches of the night. To look undisturbed at the children she loved. And to simultaneously wrestle with the sadness that consumed her and no doubt left her feeling that even her love for her children was imperfect.
i don't resent her bringing her sadness into our room. she carried it with her everywhere. i only wish sometimes that i had had the courage to crawl out of my bed and hug her, instead of clutching my bunny all the tighter, which is what i did.