A different tribute to my mother.

I look like my mother looked, or so people tell me. I think they're cluing in on the structure of my face, my not insignificant nose, and my overabundant mouth. (The deepset almond-shaped eyes and the strong dimpled chin come from Dad.)

I act like my mother acted -- somewhat. I have her extroversion, her enthusiasm, sense of humor, and intelligence. I also have some of her dark side -- the weepiness the relentless pessimism, the neediness, the rage, the hatred of getting older.

I try my best not to have her dark side, knowing that it probably came from untreated bipolar disorder. She tried her best, hampered by wrong diagnoses, inferior medicines, and the lack of awareness that comes with bipolar disorder. There were times she couldn't mother, and there were times she embarrassed us.

I loved my mother. I still do, despite all her flaws. At her best, she was a creative whirlwind, a storyteller, a sparkling woman with a flair for the dramatic (the latter of which I did not inherit). At her worst, she was betrayed by her own mind -- it's hard to realize how much your feelings dictate your sense of reality instead of the other way around, and that's the curse of bipolar disorder.

My mother died -- what? Eleven years ago? Has it been that long? I have dreams of her sometimes where I'm told she's dead, but then I visit my parents' old house, and she's there, wearing her nightgown. She's sick, as she often was in her depressions, lying on the couch, but she's not depressed. She's not dead. She tells me, in a matter-of-fact voice that she'll die soon and she's hiding from the world who thinks she has already passed away.

But she's not dead yet. Not in my mind, eleven years later. She's in my mirror and in my mannerisms and in my stories, and in the voice in my mind that is her best self as she spins among the stars. She's not gone -- I merely can't speak to her.