Perhaps I am here today because I feel emotionally obligated to write on this day. Or perhaps I think it will be better for me if I do something in my mother's memory. So far, I have done nothing. I woke up with the intention of paying attention to everything that made me happy. I managed it as far as I did not hate anything, but overall I think I'm just missing the whole point.
In my creative writing class, I wrote a story about her. Our prompt was to write a story using certain words listed below. She currently has it for grading, so I cannot share it with you just yet. As soon as I get it back, I will try to copy it on here. I cannot really remember what I wrote about, other than it was a dream in which my mom visited me. We spent the night sitting together, holding hands, gazing at the moon. Not a single word passed between us, because there was no need for them. The emotions that came with writing the piece greatly contradicted each other. On one hand, I felt desperately alone. That's how I've come to feel over these past few years. I don't always notice it, because in those moments it isn't there, but there are times when I really feel it. Like throughout the rehearsals for my play, The Laramie Project. To those that were alive (and aware enough) to watch the news in 1998, you might recall an incident in Laramie, Wyoming. A 21 year old, Matthew Shepard, was brutally beaten, tortured, and killed because he was gay. The Laramie Project is a play dealing with people that knew Matthew, people new the perpetrators, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, and even people that had strong opinions on the subject. It was very powerful, and also very emotional. There were many times we would sit in a circle to talk about what was going through our heads. I always opted out of talking, because I suck when it comes to finding the best words to express myself. Perhaps that's why I feel better with my blog. I can revise and edit before you hear what I have to say. Almost each time at these meetings, someone would start to break down and the rest would follow. We were all very stressed out that we would only have two months to rehearse and complete every aspect of this play, and also really jolted at the level of hate that oozed out of some of these characters' words. Everyone else had someone to lean on when they got upset. I didn't. Perhaps it was because most everyone in our world is self obsessed, so that they don't often notice when someone is hugging themselves because they cannot get anything out of anyone else. I realize now how harsh that sounds, and I wish I could say I was exaggerating. And I know that this was not on purpose. That's just how things ended up. The one time I broke down I condemned myself to the bathroom. I don't want people to see. I don't cry in front of people. I just don't. I can't fall asleep in front of others either, strangely enough, unless it's a sleepover with the given intent of, y'know, sleeping.
So there's that. Then, on the other hand, I can see the good out of her death. I absolutely hate that I can see it, but I can. I have noticed that her death has forced me to grow up faster than I would have otherwise. I had no one to hide behind when strangers were around. It was up to me to suck it up and talk to people. Become more social, as it were. I am shy. I am not good at comforting people, even when I suspect what the right thing to do would be. I'm the one standing there awkwardly, trying to come up with something to say that would be of any comfort. It got harder when I realized what NOT to say. Nobody cares that you're "sorry for their loss." That's not gonna do shit. Saying you're sorry makes it sound like you did it. And to me, when people told me they understood what I was going through, I frankly wanted to punch them. Unless they
literally had gone through the same thing, I didn't wanna hear it.
And then there's the sympathy. Nobody sees the good things that come from death, or even the good that is death to begin with. I mean, I dearly wish that my mother was still here, but I feel better knowing that she left her sickness with all its pain and fear and nausea to go and feel like herself again. My favorite writing prompts have been the ones where I incorporate my Mom. To me, she is like a goddess. She is the best person that was ever in existence. She was wise, funny, and happy. And more than anything, I want people to know that. Some other people may only see her great ability to organize in a way the rest of us could not. That is only a tiny aspect in the abstract puzzle of her wonder. I don't care about what else I have written today except this. Now. I love my mom, and that will never change. And I will never forget.
You know what my mom feared? Not for herself, though she might have worried. She was afraid that after all was said and done, her death would ruin our relationship. She was afraid we wouldn't be as close. I fear she was right. I can't connect to her at all. And yes, I'm that person that believes in spirits and such. I have to, if I want any source of hope. I have to know that someday, I can accomplish the task of talking to my mother again, and building back the relationship we once held.
