The only person as interested in my mother’s mental health as I am is my nine-year-old son Henry. Before she came to shelter in place with us last month, my son routinely asked me, “Did you talk to your mother today?
How did she sound?” Now that she is here, he studies her affect and rates her mood on a daily basis like I did when I was nine, always leaning toward optimism. “I think Grammy had a good day today!” he’ll say. “She asked to go outside.”When I was in fourth grade, like he is now, she had one of her depressions.
It lasted for a year, like all the others. The memories from her depressions scramble together but that might have been the one where I found she had read my Hello Kitty diary, and when I confronted her, she told me she.
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