WHO WILL WORRY ABOUT ME NOW THAT MY MOTHER IS GONE?

Note: Emotional Support Lady alternates each week between paid and free posts. Since this week is a scheduled paywall post, I will be donating the proceeds of all new paid subscribers generated from this essay to Anti-Recidivism Coalition in support of all the incarcerated firefighters who have bravely been saving my city of Los Angeles (despite our historically horrific treatment of them). If you would like to make an additional donation, you can do so here. Just make sure you put “firefighter fund” in your donation note. Sending so much love to all impacted by this devastation.

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My mother was a worrier. I used to have a standup joke that went something to the effect of:

My Mom: You need to zip your purse closed so you don’t get robbed!

Me: Mom, it is just me and you in the kitchen.

For most of my life, my mother’s worry endlessly alternated from useful to funny to annoying. Like the time she asked if she could bring anything to my house for Thanksgiving but when we asked her to just bring some milk she panicked that nothing would be open and it became easier to just get the milk ourselves than give her a heart attack over procuring it (places were open). I don’t even know how many often I argued with her over some concern that I deemed unnecessary and she considered vital. Some longtime readers of mine might find it hypocritical of me–a person publicly known for her anxiety and OCD–to find any worry unnecessary. But the thing about our brains is that we all have unique specifications of what we care about. My mom thought it was crucial for me to always have a jacket and I think it is crucial for me to cover every possible surface in cleaning agents multiple times a day. Hence, us clashing over what really mattered.

So despite having my own form of clinical-grade anxiety, it took me until I was older and getting a masters’ in psychology to fully understand where her penchant for worry truly came from and how much her hypervigilance was a natural response to a variety of traumatic experiences. For example, her insistence that my purse was always zipped had less to do with her being dramatic and more to do with her having her home robbed two different times. Finally comprehending this cause and effect enabled me to not get so confused when she would worry about losing all her savings despite my parents’ good financial standing. Because growing up poor makes financial anxiety hard to shake even if your circumstances dramatically change.

When my mom first died in September, her worry wasn’t something I immediately missed. I was more focused on the less complicated parts of her personality like her impeccable sense of humor, her unconditional support and our shared love of kitschy stores. (We once spent an afternoon in a Hallmark store giggling over the various clever and ridiculous merchandise). I only fully noticed how much I craved her constant concern when the fires broke out in LA on Tuesday.