The Day Mom Cut My Last Lifeline
Mom always says that depression is nothing more than an illness born of idleness. People who are truly busy studying don't have time to be depressed.
So, during my senior year of high school, I lie awake through countless nights, my hair falling out in clumps as I tremble over endless mock papers.
Mom only slides another mock exam booklet in front of me. "Finish this booklet, and you won't have time to wallow in self-pity."
At family gatherings, my relatives notice that I keep my head down and barely speak. They ask Mom, "Why has she gotten so quiet?"
Mom's face darkens at once. "It's because she's guilty about something, duh. Go on. Tell everyone what you've done wrong this time."
Later, even my homeroom teacher calls to say I don't seem like myself anymore. The moment Mom hangs up, she rounds on me. "So, now, you've started tattling to your teacher?"
It isn't until I collapse before a mock exam that she finally listens to the doctor's advice and brings home a tiny orange tabby. Through the darkest days of my life, that cat becomes my only reason to keep going.
Eventually, I make it into college. When I come home for the Independence Day holiday, I step through the door and call out instinctively for him. "Tangy?"
No answering meow. Even the cat bed on the balcony is gone.
"Stop calling," Mom said flatly. "I dumped him back where I found him the day you left."
I stand there, frozen for several seconds before turning and darting outside, only to realize I have no idea where to go.
The sounds around me become muffled, as though separated by a pane of glass, drifting farther and farther away. At that moment, my last connection to the world quietly snaps.