What I Never Got to Say: Writing (and Rewriting) My Mother’s Eulogy

A few weeks before my mom took her own life, she sent me an email saying that, in death, she wanted nothing to do with me. It’s an email I still have, buried deep in a folder in my inbox. At the time, I felt I couldn’t justify deleting the last words she would ever send me, despite how difficult they were to read, and how much a part of me wanted to.

I wish I could say that had been the first and only email of its kind — that my mom had never before thrown hostile remarks at me over email. But I got messages like this all the time. Sometimes in the form of a voicemail or Facebook post, they accused me of things like stealing her money and tricking her into paying for my college education. It was worse when I still lived at home. In high school, she'd spend neighborhood parties telling everyone I didn’t love her. She once called my middle school and had a teacher bring me into the office so she could tell me over the phone how I was ruining her life.

These hurtful moments, however, overlapped with grand gestures of love for me. I’d sometimes come home to find extravagant gifts I never asked for, like a limited edition Beanie Baby or an awkwardly large American Girl jacket. She threw herself into every parent volunteer group, showing up to sew costumes for the school play or arrange balloons for the eighth grade dance.

In a word, my mom was complicated. Her behavior confused and hurt me. I now realize in retrospect, having gotten support through therapy, that her behavior seemed to indicate borderline personality disorder. So, when she finally lost her battle with her mental illness, it felt like the biggest shock and the most logical thing to happen, simultaneously. Per her final wishes, and as a consequence of distance among the family, I was not asked to be a part of any decisions related to her following her death. And, if there had been any kind of funeral or service, I was not invited.

At first, I was relieved. I didn’t have the strength to publicly grieve, and I couldn’t very well go against the final wishes of a dead woman. But as I look back on her death, which is now ten years in my rearview mirror, I feel how much of a hole still exists within me. Over this past decade, I’ve realized how important funerals are for the living. They are a way for us to say goodbye. To process. To cope. Without that, it can feel like leaving a movie before reaching the credits. Putting a book down just before the last chapter. And for me, it proved difficult to move on without it.

So, as an exercise in processing my grief, I decided to write my mother a eulogy. I imagine what I would want to say to both her and others present. While these words won’t be read at a gravestone or in a church, I’ve spent hours composing them, uncovering old memories and buried feelings in the process. It has been through this reflection that I’ve realized a simple yet vital truth: the way my mom treated me was not okay. While I can still mourn her and feel sad that she is gone, it is also important to recognize that her behavior towards me, her child, was unfair. This realization has compelled me to include a section in my eulogy for her that I never would have had the courage to admit before, or imagined myself writing before, but now feels imperative for me to share: 

In so many ways, Toni Lynn was a wonderful mother. She took me to art museums and ballets. She encouraged me to ask her about my ever-changing body and mind. She made fantastic meals, sewed countless costumes and made our home a warm and welcoming space.

In other ways, Toni Lynn was a hurtful mom. She’d have epic meltdowns when I received a bad grade on a test or caught a nasty cold. It was easy for the world around her to dictate her feelings inside. And she was often so flooded with extreme emotions, she was incapable of caring for mine.

I say this not to turn this eulogy into a personal airing of grievances. I say it because I think it’s important to voice how much my mom’s mental illness affected her. How the caring person she was deep down often could not reach the surface. I would imagine that on some level, as her family, you all have struggled to understand why she did and said certain things. I’m here to tell you that you’re not alone.

I also want to assure you all that, no matter how my mom spoke to you, her love for each and every one of you was boundless. Her heart wanted to do nothing but nurture. I know because I saw it firsthand. Mom wanted to love me so hard. And while that love often couldn’t reach me, I felt it just the same. What makes today so sad is not just that she is gone, but that the true Toni Lynn is someone I rarely got to see.

Mom, I love you. No matter what, that will always be true. I’m disappointed that so much stood in your way. I know that research shows that some combination of therapy and/or medication has been proven to help people, and I feel badly that you never connected with that type of help. I’m sad that you left before we could say goodbye. But the reality is, I know you’re always with me. I feel you sitting with me on the nights I can’t sleep. Holding my hand when my flight hits turbulence. In those dark hours of the morning when I feel the most alone. I know that while you couldn’t stay to finish your own path, you walk with me through mine.

In another ten years I’m sure my feelings towards my mother will be different. That I’ll rewrite this eulogy all over again, perhaps deleting this new portion entirely. I’ll write it again in another ten. And the ten after that. And with each new sentence that spreads across the screen, I’ll find a little more peace and understanding of the life she lived, the love I have for her and the healing within me that has finally begun.