When I was 17 my mom made me a prom dress. It’s still one of my favorite pieces she has created, which is saying something because this is a woman who has spent thousands of hours behind a sewing machine. Since before I was born, she sewed dresses for herself and my sisters and me. For Christmas, Easter, and summer at the least, every year, she would produce four new dresses. When we were little, the dresses for my sisters and I were matching. As we got older we would all go the fabric store to pick out a dress pattern and material so we each got a custom frock.
I have done a little sewing. In my 20s I received a sewing machine for Christmas from my mother- and father-in-law. I was living in their basement at the time and taking prereqs for PA school. I saved my Joann’s coupons and bought material and patterns and I began to sew garments for myself. I got some vintage material from Grandma Hurst that was passed down from her mother, who owned a fabric store at one time. I made shirts and skirts and dresses.
Sewing, for me, was an interesting mix of technical ability and creativity. At times, it was really difficult to understand the pattern instructions and inevitably I would sew a seam in the wrong place and end up picking it out. Sometimes there were hours of unpicking seams. Sewing is an exercise in frustration and accomplishment, devastation and creativity, and and mostly perseverance. Sometimes it’s exhilarating and sometimes it’s intolerable.
So knowing this, when I look at my black velvet, beautifully tailored prom dress hanging in my closet, I understand a bit of what went into its creation.
My mom was in a moderate-to-severe depressive episode for about ten years, which covered the entirety of my adolescence. When I think about that time, it mostly feels quiet. It was quieter in the house without her laughter and music and the hum of her sewing machine. There were times when she didn’t function. Times when she disappeared for days. Her absences felt ominous and confusing. But most of the time she was there, doing the driving and shopping and cooking and cleaning, in a quieter way. Most of the time it wasn’t the activity in the house, but the presence of suffering that felt different.
I have learned, in a small way, what that might have felt like for her. There have been nights when I have wondered how I will face the following day—how I can summon the strength to get up and do the few things that must be done. And I’m in awe that, during this time of darkness, she found the strength and desire to create a graceful, elegant dress for me. It was a gesture of kindness and love. I see rebellion in the sparkling line of costume gems on the bodice. An indignant strike against the oppressive darkness.
This is what I learned from my mom:
To keep moving alongside the fear and the dark.
To find beauty in it.
And to create in its presence.
That is how you find the light again.
Absolutely love this blog
Wow! Thank you so much. Totally humbled 🙂
Your welcome. I love memories of my mom. So much of my mental hardships are from my childhood but the fond memories harness my maniac in some situations
Read my page and you will see what my triggers are now
You seem to have a pure heart
Hope I wasn’t a bother
Not at all! So glad it resonates with you.
More than u know so deeply it’s powerful. What’s your trigger and struggle. How old are u
I get about as personal as I am willing to be in my posts. Thanks for reading!
Oh ok wasn’t trying to pry sorry
Oh, Michelle, this is amazing. Love it. All of it. And that photo of you girls with your mom is priceless. I feel so sad that we were gone by the time the depression hit… I’m not sure what I would have been able to do, but it makes me so sad. Your thoughts on the situation show that great strength and learning can come through hard times. Beautifully and artfully done.
You’ve been such a wonderful friend to my mom. Thank you for loving her and appreciating some of what I see in her!
My mom made a Prom dress form me and I cherish the memory. I wish I still had it. This is such a great memory. I love it. Well written.
What a beautiful gesture! Xoxo
❤❤❤ your mom! She’s all kinds of wonderful. I bet she doesn’t know how the glimpses she gave me of her dark places have helped me through some of mine.
You were there and I bet you are right ❤️❤️❤️