If you look at me you will probably see my smile and conclude that I am happy. However, I have found that I am also a really good actress. What you probably won’t see is my pain, unless you look hard at what I do. You would notice my low self-esteem from years of bullies calling me tall so I slouch. You could see how I will often cover my mouth and have my bangs in front of my eyes. You can tell that something is wrong by how often I could stare at nothing, just thinking. There are 42 reasons why I am depressed, but in this essay I will only be sharing one.
   I had come home from school after my father picked me up from volleyball practice. I remember getting into the old beat-up wagon with horrible heating and static-y radio. The ride home was like many others, singing in my high pitched soprano voice to the top hit songs that was out at the moment, and after a while getting scolded by my father after he has heard enough “squeaking”. It was the second week of my sophomore year at Norwich Technical High School; I was a varsity volleyball player and was in the Health Technology shop during the day. I had gone into the house my arms full of volleyball equipment, school books, and water bottles. As usual I had found my mother bed ridden sick with a hemiplegic migraine. We have found over the years this was due to lack of sleep mixed with stress, worrying, and daily living activities. Her migraines however left her with stroke like symptoms; her whole right side was unable to work, her left eye was shut, her mouth drooped as if a weight had been attached to her right side of her lip. She sat in the bed all lights out except for the glowing of the television. She was currently watching a show about a couple finding their first house. “Hi Maman,” I said as I moved to her bed side. I moved her right arm, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do it herself, and placed it on her stomach. She moved her left arm slowly, as if it pained her to move any part of her body and put it on her lips. This, unfortunately, has become the more familiar way I’ve been able to talk with my mother. “How was school?” she asked in a slurred, mumbled manor. “Fine,” I said brushing her dark thick brown hair back from her forehead. Her hair was beautiful at one time; long with dark brown curls cascading to her lower back. “Do you need anything Maman?” I asked looking around finding ways to make her more comfortable. “Can you fill up my water with ice?” she asked. If may not have made sense to anyone but in this state she knows what she means but can’t say it properly.
   I had gotten the water from the kitchen and held the cup to my mom’s chin then placed the red striped straw to her mouth.  After a while I asked, “Are you done?” She nodded her head, and we sat there watching a couple on T.V. complain about the size of the master bedroom in one of the houses they were looking at. The bed started to move slightly and as I looked over to my mom I saw her crying. “Maman what’s wrong?” I asked, gently hugging her. “You have to promise that when you’re a nurse that you will find a cure for this, Anna!” she sobbed. “It hurts so bad, no one should have to go through this type of hurt!” “Maman I can’t promise that!” I pleaded with her, feeling the horrible gut wrenching twist you normally feel when guilt makes it’s way to your being. I couldn’t do anything to help her with this pain she was going through and knowing I wasn’t going to be able to help her was the worst thought anyone could have to ever face.
   She had been sick for five years, and it had gotten progressively worse. The previous summer, I had cared for her and my Autistic brother since I was the only one home with them most of the time and my father had to work. The worst feeling was having my brother ask “When is Mommy going to not be sick.” and other times he would say when we would be outside looking at the clouds pass by, “My favorite memory is when Mommy isn’t sick.” My stress level was at an all time high, and it still was during the time with my mom that night.
   I began to cry, “I know it hurts Mommy, but I don’t know how to help!” I clutched onto her chest and we both cried together. “Please just kill me!” she sobbed hugging me back with one arm, “It’s too much to bare, just kill me!” “I can’t do that Maman! I’m sorry!” I said shaking my head side to side, my face mostly red and covered in tears. I cried on her for what seemed like hours but only was minutes. By that time my dad came in, he rubbed my back and slowly I calmed down. My mom started to pat my back and sang a song she sang to all of her children as babies to get them to go to sleep.
   “Rue, rue, ricky-ton-ton.” she swayed me back and forth on her chest and that’s when I knew that my mother wouldn’t remember this episode in the morning. I cried even more then, feeling young, helpless, and hopeless. “Shhh, baby. go to sleep,” she said cooing to me as if I were a two-year-old who had a bad dream. “Go to sleep little girl. I love you.” “I love you too Mama.” I said as I left my mother laying on her bed asleep.
  This night made me realized my mother, the person who took care of me my whole life, the recipient of my teen anx, was the only person in the world I wasn’t going be able to live without now. I needed to help her, mature into a women who would be able to handle my insecurities and bullies. I needed to grow up to help her, and this decision ended up changing my whole life and influence my choice in career. This is just one reason of the 42 reasons why I am the way I am.