Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Happy Birthday Mom


Well, the tears started last night. Are you surprised? You didn't really know the non-robotic me, I don't think. I started the memory wreath tonight, I'll finish it tomorrow I guess. I think I started this 'tradition' last year, in memory of you and Ernesto's dad and grandma. It's something I guess...to keep my hands busy, moving. I don't know. It just seems like a nice sentiment. It's made out of rosemary, which is symbolic for remembrance.

There's so much going on right now, mom. I can't stop the tears, even though I try. I've really made a mess of things and I don't know how to fix it. I can't fix it I guess and I wish so bad I could. I don't know what else to do.

My life has pretty much come full circle. And it really sucks. I've been completely rejected and abandoned...pretty much a repeat of my birth, huh? Funny how that works. I guess you would really understand if you were here...and if I told you. I think there were things you wanted to tell me--but you didn't. I suppose that is because I didn't let you, maybe. I'm not sure.

It wasn't fair of you either, you know. You resolved your self of the guilt of your 'secret' but you didn't stop to think how you were transferring the burden on me to carry. That's not really fair to a little girl, don't you think? I'm not mad at you for it, but I think it's long past time to be honest about this. It wasn't fair to put that on me and then be unwilling to answer my questions about the situation. How can a little girl process the idea of abandonment & rejection--that I didn't even know about until you chose to tell me? What did you expect me to do w/ that information? Why did you act like you were willing  to answer questions when I was seven, and didn't have any, but not when I was 17 and did? Why couldn't you be mature enough to answer MY questions about it then?

I know why. Because you weren't. I don't really blame you--it wasn't your fault. I know things didn't go as you expected and probably dreamt about either. Wow, how I can understand that now. I can see your disappointments now. I understand why you were so tired and seemed so angry. I feel it now. I'm feeling that same disappointment and anger and fatigue.

I guess, maybe, we both bought into the fairytale, huh? I never thought this before, but maybe we both were actual romantics at heart. I didn't even realize it for myself until the fairy tale began to unravel. I thought love would save us...I still hope it can--but that just might be the hopeless romantic in me.

How did I get here, mom? I really believed my life would be so different from yours. From my perspective--it really looks like it's nearly the same--in all the disappointing ways. The childhood abandonment, the welfare, the depression, even going back to school--and I might have to give up being a stay-at-home-mom at some point too, like you did. At least you and dad stayed together. For whatever that was worth. I'm sorry--I know it was worth it. Did you know that mom? It meant something. It meant a lot.

I'm sorry we weren't as close as you wanted us to be--sooner anyway. I really thought since you and Birdy hit it off, you'd have the best friend you always wanted in me. How could we know the time would be so short? I thought I was stronger than you mom--but I don't really think I am. I don't think that anymore. I don't think I can do this mom. I don't think I can deal with all the disappointment. I don't know HOW to 'get over it'. Did you? Did you really?

Or maybe you didn't and that was why you were depressed. What did you ever figure out, at all those therapist appointments? What was the secret? How did you do it mom? Cause I really need to know. Really.

Sometimes people mention you, a perception of you--and I don't know that part. I didn't see it. Someone called you a prayer warrior. Is that true? Cause if so, I didn't know that. How did I not know that? But if you were--guess what? So am I. I guess. I am. More like a prayer desperado (ie: desperate criminal) than prayer warrior.

Why did you stop journaling? I tried to find your journals. I wanted to read them. I wanted to know all your secrets. I wanted to read about myself, from your perspective. The things maybe you wanted to tell me but didn't. I only found a few books, maybe, but they were BLANK mom! Where are they? I found one and it only had writing on ONE page--about dieting or something. Really, mom? Dieting!?!

I write mom. I know you wanted to write--I think, right? You liked it. You started that blog--I'm sorry, I forgot the password so now it's lost in cyber-space. Both of them, and I regret that. You'd be excited about my writing. Not the personal stuff, but the writing I get paid for. Thank you for always being encouraging. It meant a lot to me. Really. Even if I didn't believe you, thought you were just saying it because you were my mom and that's what moms do. But I still really liked hearing it.

Why didn't you say anything before you died? Did you really not have anything to say? Did you tell dad? Were you waiting for me to ask?

I want to go to the cemetery. I'd actually like to go more often. At the same time, it feels silly-because I know you're not even there. I put flowers, for what? For who? There's a lot of cemetery peer pressure mom. A lot. It's strange. I feel guilty for not going more often when I see other sites so decorated. Some people come and seem to stay all day, having a picnic. I thought I would do that. It seems pointless now, though. I'm sure I won't go tomorrow.

At first, there was a spot near yours, it was a younger man--maybe my age--I can still consider myself younger right? I think he was gay. I think it was his mom, cause she looked older. She brought roses all the time. He had extra vases on his plot, maybe six of them. I think they are even in the shape of a cross. Anyway, she was there all the time, at first. All the vases filled with red roses. Not anymore though. His is just one neglected plot, like yours, out of many more than when you first arrived.

The tree is really big now too. I hung a wind chime once, while it was still smaller. Other people had hung some too. I guess someone stole it cause it wasn't there anymore a few visits ago.

I wish you could have met Kurtis. Of course, you would have loved him and really liked  him. I named him after you and grandma you know. And me I guess, technically. I wish you wouldn't have rushed back down the hall when I was in labor with Sam-or was it Birdy? I would have let you stay.

I was crying earlier and Kurtis said, "I love you mom, don't cry." He thinks he needs to say that I guess, cause he's witnessed a lot of crying from me the past few months.

I tried to reassure him, "I'm crying because I miss my mommy. Don't you cry sometimes when you miss me?"

"You mean your mom?"

He's sharp, mom, real sharp.

I understand a lot more now, mom. About being a mother. That pain and sorrow. Did you think I was fearless, mom? You thought I was brave but that's not the same as being fearless. With out fear. I was afraid mom. Not of the dark. Not of monsters. I am not really afraid of anything...but this, if I am being honest. I guess I can be, I should be. What does it matter now?

I tried not to be, didn't want to believe my fears would come true...but they are. They are mom. It's happening. I don't know what to do. It's all fallen apart. What did you do when you were afraid? I can't remember. I don't think you ran away, did you? Did you give up? Did you write? Tell me mom. Why didn't you tell me what to do?

What should I do? Did you pray? Did it work or help? What were you afraid of mom? Were you afraid of dying? You didn't say you were. I know you didn't want to, but...I am glad I was with you. I'm glad you let me be with you. I was afraid I would miss it. I wanted to be with you. To feel it. To feel everything.

You died in my arms, mom. Did you know that? In our arms; mine, Nancy's and Shari's. I didn't realize it at the time. Thank you for that mom. It was amazing. Like birth. Your rebirth.

A few more hours and you would have been 57. I can't imagine you at 57, of course. I don't think I can do this mom. I will try--what choice do I have? Like you, what choice did you have? You couldn't do anything to stop your death, to save your life. I can't do anything to save my marriage, mom. There. You were brave though. You trusted. Anyway, you trusted. I think it takes a lot of faith to die mom. No one can tell you, what's on the other side. No one can tell me what is on the other side either, not really. You had to go alone, no one could go with you. I have to go alone too. It's just me. I'm trying to trust. Finally. Be brave, whatever bravery is worth these days. I guess it just depends on what the going exchange rate for fear is.

Maybe if you could do it...I can too.

Sorry for asking so many questions, by the way. I have been told my questions are very irritating, apparently.  I guess that could be true. I don't know. Maybe, they are only irritating to people that don't really care about you, as a person. Does this sound like a lot of whining? I know you would get it, mom. I think you knew me better than you gave yourself credit for. I knew you a lot less than I gave myself credit for.

Thank you for being good enough mom. You were always good enough and that was enough. You were enough.

Happy Birthday, mom.

1 comment:

  1. ((hugs)) to you my beautiful friend. You are loved. X


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