There’s this saying from Fight Club. The first rule of fight club is that you never talk about fight club. I’ve always thought that the same rules apply when you’re the child of a deceased parent. The first rule of dead parent’s club is that you do not talk about being the child of a dead parent. There are a lot of things I can tell you about myself. I’m twenty-six; I want to be a writer; when I was fifteen, I was a hair model; I love my friends more than anything. But the thing that comes to mind the most, the one I never open with is: I’m Jess, and when I was fourteen, I lost my mom to cancer. It can be mentioned in passing, of course. It can be mentioned the time of year that it happened (because blaming PMS for being a bitch can’t quite be used as an excuse for an entire month), but the details are never discussed. It’s never stated how lonely it is, how in every person, every moment you look for a person who is no longer there. It’s never discussed that five years can pass, ten years can pass and you’re still searching for someone, for something to replace a hollowness that will always remain.

Three years ago, I was told by my favorite actress to pick up a book called Motherless Daughters. I read about fifty pages before I stopped. I don't remember why and I could assume a lot of things: I got too busy; there was another book I wanted to read, etc. But I stopped just before the results of what happens to teens that lose their mom. I think deep down I told myself I didn't need this. I was okay. I had friends, a job. I followed my dreams and moved to LA like I swore I would since I was six. I had defeated the pain of parental loss because I could vocalize and talk about my mom freely.

What a crock.

I think it’s interesting how alone I felt for so long. I knew people who had lost their parents, but I felt different. I thought that I was the only one who could go from hysterical laughing to feeling a sense of deep longing in the pit of my stomach after minutes. I thought I was the only person who held onto the relationships in my life as if it was the end of the world, because to me it was. I never realized that other people like me felt the same way, that the idea of loss - even in friendship - is just one more person gone. When you’re the child of a dead parent (especially at a young age), you’re told continuously how strong you are. To the outside world, you have conquered the hardest thing there is to conquer. But on the inside, you lack all the things really needed for survival. Confidence, self-esteem, and a place to really belong.

If other parentless children knew this, if it was okay to discuss it, would we still feel alone? Maybe. I have two older brothers, but the weird thing is I don’t talk about it with them. It could be because they’re guys or because there’s something that holds me back from talking about it with immediate family. I’m the youngest by thirteen and fifteen years and I’m forever seen as the baby in my family. It’s great when I want money or presents, but not so great when I want to be seen as an equal. My friends try to listen, to understand, but how do you explain something that has no definition, that has no words, that has no merit unless experienced by someone else? I know other people who don’t discuss it with their siblings. People who have lost a parent yearn to fit in, to be seen as strong, and we’re never the ones who want to break first. So instead of breaking, I became the therapist to everyone who needed it. I'd get calls or emails at two in the morning from friends who needed help. It was always easier somehow. Knowing that someone could so effortlessly rely on me therefore giving me a purpose, something to feel good about. I grew up so fast and am an old soul but deep down I'm still fourteen, still looking for someone to take care of me. I think that’s another thing none of us lost kids ever want to admit. That we need someone else’s help because if we do, if we lean on someone too much, they’ll leave us. We can admit we’re in a bad mood, but we never want to say: I miss my mom. It’s a random Tuesday, no where near an anniversary or a birthday and all voicing it really does is make us feel like an idiot because surely we can make ourselves feel better. But the thing is? There doesn’t have to be a trigger. It occurs at the most random times, in the most random of places. It occurs when watching a mother and child in movies or television or books; it occurs when an older actress (or character) does something even remotely mother-like. You sit on a bench in Central Park or are in a restaurant and see a mother/child of your own age conversing and can’t help but wonder if that’s what it would be like for you. It’s something you can try to explain, but words don’t come out right, so you don’t.

In Motherless Daughters, it states that people who don’t have moms lack the confidence that those with moms do have. In some respect, it sounds like crap. We’re our own people and yes, our parents shape us, but at a certain point when do you stop laying the blame on this occurrence and start taking responsibility for yourself? But the truth is, before my mom died I didn’t worry about what I worry about now. Okay, so I was fourteen and in the previous years I cared about what all teenagers care about: boys, clothes, gossip. But I was social and fearless and could talk to anyone that I wanted, be anything I wanted. I wanted to be an actress; I loved being the center of attention. One day, that all changed. During plays in school, I developed unbearable stage fright. I stopped wanting to go out so much. Instead of making friends in a split second, I became awkward and uncomfortable in social situations. I could fake it and I’d end up having a blast but the initial fear still stays with me even twelve years later. It was only recently I discovered that I didn’t randomly become this person, but losing my mom brought that on. It sounds obvious, but apparently I was a little slow in learning.

I often wonder who I would be had I had a mother throughout my teenage years. Would I need to please everyone? Would I fear losing friendships? I often wonder what it would be like to be in a room with every child who has lost a mother (no matter what the age) and find people who understand like no one else can.

I’m not sure this has a point, except that it would be nice to broadcast out a memo, hire a skywriter, wave a flag on a plane passing over a beach that simply states: Dead Parents’ Club: We all feel like shit sometimes, you’re not alone. I learned that this week when discussing it with a friend of mine. No matter how old you were then, no matter how old you are now, the bad days come, the good days remain and who we are because of this isn’t something to shy away from, but something to embrace, to talk about, to grow from it. Losing my mother might always be a stigma attached to my name and my personality; I’ll always miss her on a random Tuesday or Wednesday or August. But it’s nice to know that on those days it’s bothering me, other people do understand. And maybe in the end, that’s all that matters.