There's a deep sometimes unspoken bond between a mother and a daughter. It's a connection, a relationship that can't be filled by any other. It's something that only two women can understand, that only two women can feel. There's a deep spiritual understanding between these two women that most of the time isn't conscious. It's something lying deep under the surface only to rise shortly and submerge itself again in our depths.

My mother and I have fought with and for each other since I was born. It's a never ending battle, a rising and falling tide. When I was born, I was her first, her last. Her only. She was just getting ready to turn 33 yrs old. An "old" mother. I was born six weeks premature, before she'd even taken a single lamaze class. I weighed about 5 lbs. Healthy for a baby in that situation, no less a girl. I had severe asthma, a heart murmur, they didn't think I'd live. My mother spent those first few years of my life fighting for that life every day. Protecting me from attacks, keeping me alive. The first few months after I was born she had to keep daily entries on every detail of my life. It consumed her. I meant everything. My father was still working so he couldn't be there all the time but when he came home he tried to help the best he could. Not being there for much meant he didn't know how to take care of me as well as she did.

I grew older, in a situation and place that was less than appealing. I was a little girl, even I'll admit I was a pretty little girl, growing up on a carnival. Moving every week, struggling to make friends. My mother watched me carefully, guarding me from anything that could cause me harm.

I remember the first and only time I said I hated her. I don't remember why I did, but I will always remember the look in her eyes. I saw her heart break in that moment. I was very little, obviously not understanding what the words I said meant. But the moment after, I knew I had said something unforgivable, yet she forgave me. I remember seeing the tears in her eyes, her walking away from me. I remember the feeling of horror I had from what I had said. How horrible I had been in that moment. I never told anyone I hated them again.

When I turned 8 yrs old, the doctors put me on a steroid to help with the asthma. I gained weight rapidly. My moods changed in the blink of an eye. As my mother said to me many times, I "lost my sparkle" then. I wasn't a happy bright little girl anymore. I was depressed, I was angry, I was someone else.

To the doctor's dismay, my mother took me off of the drug. The effects though, didn't really go away. The damage was done.

At 9 yrs old, I held a razor to my wrist. I wanted to end my life, before it had even begun. I heard God's voice then, I always will believe it was Him. Telling me to think of my parents. My mother. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't even start to attempt it.

I battled with these inner demons for years. They still whisper to me, but I'm much too strong to listen anymore. I have too much love to fit that kind of hatred into my heart anymore.

My grandfather, my mom's father, died when I was 13 yrs old. Mom had been with him everyday of the last few weeks of his life, cleaning him, giving him his medication, taking care of him, calming him when he saw things that terrified him. He had cancer. He was a skeleton by then. The disease had eaten him alive.

I remember trying so hard to take care of everything I could. Myself, our pets, my parents. I was still too young though, I realize that now. But I did try.

A few years later, when I was 15 yrs old, my grandmother (father's mother) died suddenly. Doctors had overdosed her with blood thinners. Instead of changing her prescription to half, they doubled it. She had the flu, coughed too hard. Her throat hemorrhaged, and she essentially choked to death on her own blood.

We were in Tulsa, taking care of her belongings, me and mom, when our relationship changed. We got into a fight and I found out a very deep dark secret from my mother. Something she'd kept hidden from me all her life, but something I had suspected. I obviously can't say what it was, but my view of her changed. That same day I told her about my repeated episodes with suicidal thoughts. I cried and she held me. Just as early that day, when she had cried and I held her. Our relationship changed, and I felt that my mother was becoming my friend, not only my parent.

A few months later, my mother was diagnosed with diabetes. Neuropathy. The stress over my grandmothers death had triggered the nerved, leading to a visit with the doctor. Her blood sugar that day had been 499, 180 and lower is considered normal.

I dropped out of high school to take care of her, since the pain from the neuropathy was intense. She stayed in bed most days, and I cooked and cleaned and did my best to keep the house up. I generally don't talk about that.

Suddenly, after all those years, I was fighting for her. There are cures for diabetes. But they aren't approved by our goverment. In many places they are illegal. Many know that stem cell research proved to be a cure for diabetes, as well as MS and many other "incurable" diseases.

These past few years I've been fighting for her however I can. Since at the moment she's her worst enemy. This last year my mother relapsed into bulimia. Obviously a secret in the family. And I hadn't known. I blamed myself for not knowing. But she came to me, on her own, to tell me. It broke my heart, and I told her so. I didn't put her down or freak out, I just told her I was sad. Sad that she felt she needed to do that. My mother is attractive for her age. Everyone says so. How young she looks, that she can't be in her 50s. I'm proud of my mother.

I fight for her when her depression gets the best of her. I force her to relax, to pamper herself, I make her treat herself as good as she treats everyone else. I try my best to make her see she deserves good things in life. I tell her she only lives once, and to live a little for herself.

After all these years, I'm finally fighting for her. I've been given the chance to pay her back for all the years, those long years, she's fought for me.

I thank God for giving me this chance. For giving me this gift.