When I was 7, my mother committed suicide. Since that day, remembering her has been a struggle; a search for moments I sometimes don't believe are there. But as I grow up, I find that parts of her that have been living dormant in me are revealing themselves. And I know it's her.I didn't really know what happened until about four years later, when I found her death certificate in my father's closet. Single gunshot wound to the heart, it read. But up until then, he'd always told me she was sick. I believed him, and, as a matter of fact, I still believe him. More than 90% of suicides are due to mental illness, and women are three times as likely to attempt suicide than men.You could say I look like my mother. I have her eyes, her cheeks, and her toothy smile. But the person who remembers her best is my sister. She has the sharpest memory I know. From her smell, to her laugh, to her touch — she can describe my mother so intricately, it's as if she were still here. But when I'm alone, all I can do is wonder, Why am I the way I am? Why do I like these things? Why do I love what I do? Did she have to do with any of that? The connection I feel when I look at old photos of her is overwhelming. It's like her style clicks with me. That's my mom.From what I've been told, she had great style. Her bags, shoes, and jewelry were always scattered around her rooms, like the entire house was one giant showroom. If I wasn't dressing up in my sister's ballet tutus, I'd be in my mother's closet trying on her heels or, better, wearing her sleeping T-shirts as dresses. She worked at a bookstore that carried Ray-Bans, so I used to wear those, too. To be honest, not much has changed. I've got more clothes than I know what to do with, but I'd say my closet is just as disorganized as hers.