My mother toils under the assumption that she is beautifully imperfect but the world should be perfect. She reacts to news like a small child. Living in the moment with the belief that what is going on now will be what goes on forever. I am her child and I am the same.
We slump together from depression to remission, my mother and I. We stay on the couch for days at a time drinking wine, eating Oreos, and watching reality television. Then Mom gets an alimony check or I finally land a job interview and the fever breaks. We wear makeup again and make steak for dinner.
Things get better only temporarily. I, too, will grow old like my mother. If I have a daughter, we will lurch from highs to lows, drinking, fighting, and maybe having a few steak dinners.