I was growing up with my mom, my stepfather, my older brother, and my three younger sisters in a terrible apartment—just two small rooms and a tiny kitchenette by the door. When I was 14, my mom died of a stroke after another alcohol-fueled party with my stepdad and their friends.

I remember that night as clearly as yesterday, even though it was over 27 years ago. My siblings and I were trying to sleep in one room while the adults drank and shouted in the other. The party started fading out just before midnight. My older brother came home, a bit drunk, and went to ask our mom for money. He tried to wake her up—but then I heard him scream.

That scream pulled me straight out of bed. I ran into the other room. It was dark, but I saw him standing next to their bed, panicking. He backed away from her and kept asking me, "What’s happening? What’s wrong with her?"

I moved closer. I saw her skin—unnatural, lifeless. I touched her. She was cold. Not breathing. I started CPR. It wasn’t perfect—just what we’d learned in school, not enough pressure, not enough skill. Years later, I’d learn how to do it properly during a first aid course. But back then, I was 14, terrified, just doing what I could.

My brother was screaming, pacing, shaking. I yelled at him to go downstairs and call for an ambulance. One of my sisters came into the room—still half-asleep, confused. I told her to find the building manager and tell them our mother was unconscious. She ran.

I kept going with the CPR. My stepdad was passed out drunk right there on the bed. Their friends were snoring on the couch less than a meter away. Nobody woke up. Nobody helped.

Eventually, the paramedics arrived. A woman stopped me and took over. I don’t know how long I’d been doing it. I wasn’t crying. I didn’t even notice time passing. When they began working on her, I walked outside, sat on the floor, and smoked a cigarette.

Some time later, one of the paramedics came out and said: "She’s gone."

And that… that’s the moment I truly understood what people mean when they say: “I can’t believe it.” I knew it was true, but I couldn’t accept it. I still don’t know if I ever really did.

Sorry—I can’t stop crying. I’ll continue this memory another day.

📅 April, 2025

“I’m afraid of losing pieces of myself I haven’t even met yet.”

Some memories are like dry sand—loose, grainy, impossible to hold. Others? Wet mud. Heavy. Sticky. Too much. I don’t know how to carry either.

I think I started writing this because I was scared. Not of dying, or failing, or even forgetting. I was scared of being forgotten by myself.

My thoughts scatter like birds. ADHD? Maybe. Trauma? Definitely. Every time I sit down to write, something else grabs my attention. A crumb on the floor. A cat I saw two weeks ago. A horrible meme. The desire to make tea I don’t even want. Writing this is like trying to take a shower in a burning house.

But still—I write. Because something told me, very quietly: “You won’t remember this unless you make it real.”

Sorry—I can’t stop crying. I’ll continue this memory another day.