[Note from Frolic: We are so honored to have author Jackie Lau write a special guest post on the site today.]
Content warning: Suicide, depression, grief
I was twenty-five when I lost my mother to suicide in 2010.
My memory from that time is a strange thing. I remember some things so clearly; other things that I think I ought to remember, I don’t remember at all.
I’d seen her less than a week before she died, and one of the last things I told her was that I’d started writing a novel. She was happy for me because she knew I’d always meant to write a book.
I wasn’t writing romance at the time; I’d never even read a romance novel. My first two books, inspired by Bridget Jones’s Diary, were women’s fiction. The first draft of my first novel took me eight months, and in October of 2010, I think I’d just started revising it. I could take a look at the files, but I’m pretty sure that first book is utter crap—I didn’t even query it—so I’m scared to check.
But I’d realized that the romance had taken over the story, and so I started reading romance. Also, I was desperate to read happy endings in the wake of my mom’s death, and it was comforting to know I’d be guaranteed one.
I read lots of romance, and then a year later, I wrote my first romance novella. It was published in 2014 and didn’t sell great, but I kept writing.
At the same time, though, my own mental illness problems—similar to my mother’s—had a devastating effect on my life. I’d struggled with depression since high school, but it got worse. I tried therapy, numerous drugs, and other treatments without success. One treatment even traumatized me and left me terrified of sleep, which of course didn’t help my depression. I had to quit my job.
I had electroconvulsive therapy (electroshock) dozens of times. It might have helped a little, unlike everything else, but it wasn’t worth the side effects. I was told I didn’t qualify for a study on treatment-resistant depression because my depression was too treatment resistant. They wanted to put me in another study that involved drilling a tiny hole in my head, and I said, “Hell, no.”
Eventually, I gave up on treatment. It wasn’t like there was much left to try, and not having to see a psychiatrist on a regular basis was such a relief.
I kept writing.