Heart Berries: A Memoir

by Terese Marie Mailhot

I’m tired of the constant stories and the truth I don’t acknowledge. They’re not medicine anymore. I’m not medicine anymore. The words are flaccid, and the things I used to find sacred are torment. I’m stepping into my own undertow. My own valley is closing in on me. I curl into walls, ashamed at my cowardice. I am sick or possessed.

I think self-esteem is a white invention to further separate one person from another. It asks people to assess their values and implies people have worth. It seems like identity capitalism.

Days after I picked up the phone, my mother lost her unemployment. She screamed until she cried, and then said that if we didn’t eat it was my fault. I know, just like I know with my own child, she was sorry the moment the words escaped her mouth. The difference between her and I, as mothers, is that I don’t have a sense of pride with my son. He is a small king. Still, he is as unfortunate as me, but at least he hasn’t had to be home alone or starve. I have fostered love with compliments and carrying him, even when he grew to be half my size. I prepared meals and spoon-fed him. Children are teachers.

I can only elaborate on the small things, like her smallness, and how light her fists were—how she pinched the fat of my fingers to tell me she loved me. She was always aware of her struggle. A single mother with four children is destined to die from exhaustion, unless there is a miracle of fortune or justice.

I told my therapist that I felt no purpose without you. “What about your children?” she asked. “I believe purpose extends beyond family.”

He was born gifted and moved silently throughout my world—unsure if he could trust me. He was a little ghost like I was to my mother. Little ghosts don’t carry little wounds. I think our pain expands the longer we’re neglected.

I feel dormant watching you live fuller than I can. I worry I am a cavern. I’ve inherited my mother’s hollow stomach. You tell me that my pain feels searing and that I’m missing four layers of skin. Your pain is an empty room. I agree.