Raw

I can very vividly recall times in the past when I felt overwhelmed or depressed or upset. I can remember feeling as if life had become sort of pointless—walking around and suddenly being struck with the thought: “How did I get here? Why am I doing this? What is this all for?”

“Is this my life?”

In the past, I’m sure I called my mom. I’m sure I called my mom and just sighed in her ear or complained about something someone said or did. And maybe she said something to make me feel better…and maybe she didn’t. But I still called and she still answered.

You don’t realize—even when you’re feeling your worst—that it always gets better. And before you go thinking that this is a positive post, let me add: it always gets better until somebody essential to you dies.

And then it doesn’t, really. It doesn’t ever get as good as it could, because she’s never going to pick up the phone again. Be it good news or bad, she won’t ever be there to receive it with joy or brush it off with wisdom ever again.

And is this my life?

Close to Me

Today made my mom feel close again. I went for my “wellness” walk at 9:45 (my employer gives me 30 minutes paid to exercise each day—score) and it was a beautiful cool morning. Even though the leaves are far from changing in Texas it felt like autumn. I’m wearing one of my mom’s sweaters today and walking around in the sunshine with the cool breeze, wrapped in my mom’s clothes, made it almost feel like she was walking with me. I love “wellness” time because it is really effective. I use the break to call family now and then, but I prefer being selfish with my time and just reflecting in quite as I walk around the ponds in front of JCK. It gives me time to kind of meditate and refresh myself before going back into work and plugging along. The “fall-ish” weather and thoughts of my mom didn’t make me sad. I missed her, but I also didn’t need to. If she could see me walking around, thinking about the future and all the hope stored up in it, she would be so happy and proud. That thought, that I am leading a life she would be proud of, is what made her feel so close. It sounds cheesy when I reread it, but it’s so true.

Mom, I’m doing great. The sun is shining, the air is (ever so slowly) cooling down, your favorite time of year is close at hand. I’ve started decorating for Halloween with paper cut-outs at work and a lantern at home. I’ll tack up the orange & purple twinkle lights as soon as I find the time. You’d be shocked to know I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet, but I’ve already planned where our tree will go. I hope this closeness sticks around all season. It’s nice to feel like you’re still around.

I love you.

Good News & a Fool's Manifesto

This has been the kind of week that would have made my mom so happy. First, my obsessive scanning of the Craigslist housing ads resulted in the payoff of the year: an 1100 square foot duplex with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a fireplace in the living room, washer/dryer included, a garage to park in, a huge basement for storage that we won’t even need because there is so much in the unit, a private deck right off the master suite with access to the wooded yard, and the whole month of September rent-free! The landlord is a great guy, the location is less than two miles from work and school, it’s really quite perfect.

Not a day after we landed that place, I got word that I was accepted into grad school here at Texas State University. I’ll be pursuing my Master of Education as of next spring! That’s the one that really would have bowled my mom over (in a good way). It’s comforting to know that she would be so proud of me, but I miss her cheering me on, regardless.

Look at me go, Mama. Your death reinforced a truth I already knew: life is unpredictable and short (even at its longest). You never know where you’ll be in ten years, so don’t waste a single moment delaying the things you want most in life. Mom should have been a teacher from the get-go. It’s what she loved and what she was truly great at doing. I’ll die with my dreams accomplished or I’ll die trying. No reason not to.

Fall and the Future

Yesterday evening I started missing my mom very much. I miss her all the time, but, every now and then it gets tough to handle, like it’s still fresh. I’ve noticed that sometimes it makes me feel very little, very young when I miss her like that. I draw pictures of us or I write to her or I just cry.

I wanted to hear from her so badly that I went back through her CaringBridge journal to read her entries—to “hear” her voice. We’re closing in on fall and that was the last season she was writing regularly. Anyone who knew my mom knows how much she loved fall. We don’t really get fall here in Austin—it feels more like spring in reverse. The days cool off (80 degrees! oh my!) and the nights get chilly. But the sun shines warm and everything stays green longer and then shoots really quickly to brown and dead. But I’ve heard of a place down south called Lost Maples and it’s supposed to have amazing fall colors. I’m going to be sure to head down there this November to see Lisa’s season at its fullest (Texas style).

My mom was never very adventurous when it came to “home”. She grew up and lived most of her life in Southern California and then moved north to be closer to her parents. She didn’t like change and didn’t like being uprooted from her routine. But she never imposed that on me. She encouraged my travels and adventures even when she doubted their success. She knew I’d make the most of it. She knew I’d get by. And she knew when I started talking about Travis that he was the perfect fit for my wandering ways…

She was right about me all the time. It was infuriating when I was a teenager, but so priceless when I got a little older.

Anyway, Travis and I aren’t done adventuring. We have big plans for our future and I know my mom would be cheering us on. That gives me the courage I need to really pursue it. I’m a relentless planner—never satisfied with the present—and the plans we’re cooking up are BIG. But I’ve got the passion to match.

Mom told me to live and I won’t let her down.

(Do) you gotta have faith(?)

In the months since my mom’s passing, I’ve done a bit of reflecting on the issues of life and death. As per usual when someone dies, I’ve gotten a lot of sympathetic assurances that Mom is watching over me or that her spirit will never leave me or so on. I am not one to step on the beliefs of others, but it has become clearer to me as time passes that I do not share these ideas.

It is true that the impact my mom had on my development and my character will never leave me. I will always have memories of her to lean on and she does impact the decisions I make day to day. I do not want to deny that she is “with me” in that regard, but as to her watching over me or existing as a soul or spirit somewhere—that I cannot fully get behind. The wonderful thing about being human (and the most aggravating thing, too) is that we can't know what is in store for us after we die. I say “wonderful” because, to me, it means there isn’t anything to argue about. I can’t be sure she isn’t in the clouds looking down on me and I can’t be sure she is. I’m okay not knowing and not guessing. The only thing I can really go off of here is intuition and feeling. And, as much as I’d like to, I don’t feel her. For me, she is gone.

It’s sad, but it’s okay. I don’t want to hide from it, but cope with it. There is much to celebrate, much to remember, much to keep alive as my own mortal journey continues. This is not to say that I don’t partake in my own imaginative ways of coping. I write to my mom in a journal dedicated to that purpose. It’s a comfort to write as if she can hear and stay up to date. I don’t literally believe she’s reading along, but it’s a harmless comfort to me.

I know my lack of “faith” goes against what many of my family and friends believe, but I don’t say these things to hurt or depress any of you. (For all I know, I’m the only one invested in this blog anyway.) I guess I’m sharing my emotions in dealing with this loss as a way to show that there are varied ways to cope and heal. There is no singular right way. My sadness is not a result of my lack of faith, but a natural course of action during grief. I am sad a lot, but I am also happy. Happy to have known her and happy to have had her in my life. Happy to have gotten close to her in the six or so years before her death. Happy to have been loved by her. Happy to be pursuing a life she would be proud of. Not feeling a spirit or presence does not deprive me or depress me more than is reasonable. It is hard, but also comforting to not fight against the only truths we know for sure: we live briefly and then we die. While those left behind continue to live and breathe, there is no return of the departed. I am of the world and subject to its laws. Death is natural; I do not fear mine. I cannot know until I face it, but being left behind seems a lot more difficult than leaving.

A Lost Child

It’s very unsettling the way this whole process is happening. My bad days are followed by good ones in which I can handle most anything. I accidentally listened to one of Mom’s old voicemails the other day and I was totally okay. No tears or lasting sadness beyond what was due. But I can feel myself declining into the bad days again. Yesterday I was feeling pretty low for no reason and last night I dreamed about her. She was “sick-Mom” and for some reason was meeting Andrew, Trevor and I at a cabin in the forest somewhere. She was supposed to have arrived, but was missing and we were all panicking. She showed up eventually, but was pretty worse for wear. I woke up out of this dream and felt the pressure again: the tightness in my chest that I feel only on bad days when I can’t shake the sadness and walk around constantly plagued by the understanding that she is no longer of this world and I can never reach her again. This is what heartbreak feels like. These are the days where I feel like a lost child not just worried about being forever separated from a parent, but completely certain of it. It makes me feel so small.

And I know that it will pass, but I also know that it will come again. And I don’t know when this cycle will ever end.

Quagmired

I was never really depressed in high school. I was your typical self-absorbed, overly dramatic, angst-ridden teen, but never really depressed. I’ve been in “funks” and been sad and lonely before, but never depressed.

What I’m getting at here is I think I’ve been depressed lately.

The other day I came home feeling completely deflated. Despite having a pretty normal day, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that everything was hopeless. I cried at work a lot (undetected, I believe) and cried when I came home, too. There was nothing I could pinpoint as the source of my sadness beyond the general residual pain of Mom’s death. But when you’re constantly coping with something it sort of fades in with daily life. I realize it every now and again when I’m having an off day—“Oh, I’m sad about Mom right now”—but it has always been a manageable, practical experience. The depression, though, was different. There are many positives in my life right now, but they all seemed pointless, irrelevant, distant. As a known control freak, I find it unnerving to be unable to master my own emotions. On the whole, I tend to cope pretty well with struggles—and with the help of friends, family, and most importantly, Travis, I’ve been able to come through the last year and a half pretty well. But, every now and then, this sticky grief takes over and I find myself completely and utterly out-of-order.

I should really be seeing a therapist, but this blog (and my poetry and journals and Travis) will have to do for now. This really is just an extension of the previously mentioned control-freakishness. When I talk about it and comb it out and actively try to understand what’s happening to me I feel a bit more in charge. I have a theory that the days of depression I experience are really just a release of the culminating sadness I experience over a longer period of time. Every single time I look down at my hands and see hers, every time I get the urge to call her before I remember I can’t, every time I look at her picture…the hurt silently snowballs and then rolls over me for a few days until I recover and the process starts all over again. At least that’s what it feels like to me.

So, yeah. That’s all I’ve got for now. My own personal cartography of grieving.

A Motherless Daughter

I'm reading a book Don got me called "Motherless Daughters" and­­--though really, really pertinent and helpful--it is, of course, really, really depressing. I knew before I lost my mom that I would feel the pain for the rest of my life--and reading these stories about women who didn't handle their grief until they got married or had their first child really hits home. One of my first reactions to the news of my mom's grave condition was "how can I ever be a mother without mine?" She was the first person I went to for advice in life and the person who would listen to me as I talked things out (not even offering advice, but just letting me work things out on my own and then cheering me on when I finally did). I always assumed she would be there to answer what still seem like truly daunting questions regarding pregnancy, birth, child-rearing, etc. I made damn sure she was there for my wedding, but I know I will really need her when my time comes to enter motherhood. I live with the understanding that the moment I discover my first pregnancy will be intimately painful because that exciting news will also bring the crushing reminder that I am in it alone. I will, of course, have the best and most supportive partner to experience it with and a plethora of supportive women willing to step in where my mother cannot. This is invaluable to me. But I will still need and want and miss my mother.

Losing your mother is not an event. It isn't something that happens once and is recovered from--it is a state of being. I am, right now, still losing my mother. I am and will forever be a "Motherless Daughter." She will never be on the other end of the line when I need to call for reassurance or guidance or just to shoot the breeze. She won't be there to celebrate my first home purchase. She won't be at the hospital when I have children. She won't make her fudge each Christmas or call me on my birthdays. I may not cry each time one of these milestones (or everyday moments) occurs in the future, but I will recognize her absence and feel it. And mourn it. Forever.

This is truly helpful, the talking about it part. Reading about grief while experiencing grief helps put into context why you’re feeling a certain way or how others might be expecting you to be coping, etc. I’ve realized, and this isn’t surprising to me or to anyone who knows me well, I am blessed with an innate and useful tendency to communicate my feelings. Many people bottle their emotions in times of grief, try to move on quicker than they should, or think that showing pain and sadness weakens them or calls too much attention to them. I have cried in public too many times to count since this whole thing began. I talk to whoever will listen. I tell stories about my mom. I write about her. And I even write to her… In that respect, I am doing alright. And I thank you and everyone who has ever taken the time to lend a compassionate ear, to read my poetry, or to send me a card, text, Facebook message, whatever. It all matters. It all helps.