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Septembers have always been so hard.

September 26^th is my mama's birthday. She's always been the most important person in my life, the most influential, made the greatest contribution to my character and my success.

I was nine years old when my mama died on September 16^th. For the majority of my life, I didn't know what was happening; I was just inexplicably miserable through September. It was probably that I was becoming a teenager, and I was going back to school, and I hated school because I was an angsty, rebellious teenager. Maybe I was upset because my late-summer birthday was over, and I was a selfish little brat who couldn't cope with no longer being special. Maybe it was the chill of northern weather settling in and souring my mood, the omen that came before my greatest enemy, snow, which would bring out my inherent laziness as walking home became more inconvenient, shoveling came back into the chore rotation, and I would be free to loaf around the house while it was too cold to go out and exercise.

None of those are necessarily false, though the presumed underlying motivations—angst and rebellion, selfishness, laziness—primarily existed in the mind of the person who raised me afterwards.

We just didn't talk about the grief. Neither of us, not with each other, not with professionals. We weren't even grieving the same person. She had, after all, "failed with" her daughter. Something was so incurably wrong with her daughter that the only thing she could do was regret. She only talked about how much more control she should have had. It hurts me, to think that my childhood was somehow so wrong that there was nothing to celebrate.

My grieved was an amazing woman. My mama was funny, and crafty, and she was always proud of me. She always had ways to entertain me on shoestring budgets. She loved to goof and play. She taught me how to love animals, from cats and wolves to rats and snakes. She was a hard worker and an incredible caretaker; I was always sheltered, clothed, fed, instability be damned. More than that, I was loved, and I never doubted I was loved. When I was scared, I was loved. When we argued, I was loved. When I made things and broke things, I was always loved.

Of all the things she left me with, I most deeply value the knowledge of what it's like to be so thoroughly loved. She gave me everything she had and only asked that I become whoever I would be. She gave me so much love that it still sustains me decades later.

The grief I still carry, what I'll never be free of, is that I can't give anything back. She was gone before I could even start. She was intentional in raising me differently from how she was raised, suffusing me with love even when it was difficult, and I can't show her how right she was. I can't show her how deep and persistent the well of her love is in me. I'm desperate to call her Mama again and tell her how much I love her too, and that's all I still ache for. It's too big in my chest and I have nowhere to pour it into. I have to cry it out. It's all I can do.

I realized, a couple years ago, why Septembers are so hard. I felt silly for how obvious it was, how long it took me to understand. How long it even took me to notice the way my mood and stability took a nosedive every September. But at the same time, how would I? It's too awkward to try to explain my relationship with her to people who didn't know her, and I don't talk about her with people who did. This became my reality when I was nine years old, and I was left to process all alone.

This year was better. Not good, but less intense. I spent some of the first half feeling happy, feeling good about life, finding some much needed medication success. I've cried on and off between the 16th and now, but it's been intentional. I've cried while remembering her and feeling grateful. I don't think she's out there watching me—I'm more inclined to reincarnation—but, for my own sake, I've cried while saying, "I love you, Mama," "Happy birthday, Mama." I wished her a happy birthday first thing when I woke up and right before midnight. It hurts, but it helps.

Going forward, I want to turn Septembers into a calm time of reflection. I want to refine this year's week of sobbing volatility into next year's grounding rituals. I don't want to stop grieving, but I want to focus it into celebrating everything she was.

I love you, Mama. If I can give half as much to someone as you gave to me, I'll have lived an amazing life.