7 Years & Always Remembering You, Mom

Tomorrow is my Mother’s death anniversary (August 14th). I got home last night and, for some reason, figured it was on Sunday. That happens after you have a couple of pints. Your brain makes things up. So, Saturday it is. Seven years as of 6:20 a.m. Last night I drudged up an old couple of entries in memory of her, just to remember what I was feeling. I will share some of them with you:

August 14th, 2003 – 12:50 a.m. - Mom, I love you.

I think this is my last night with her.

August 14, 2003 – 7:02 a.m. – You taught us all, again.

Rest In Peace, Mother.
November 9th, 1946 – August 14th, 2003

My Mother passed away at 6:20 a.m. today, and if I could explain what I felt when she took her last breath, as I was stroking her hair, then this world would be understood by all.

I can feel her running through my veins and all around me, she’s still here, she’s broke free. My Mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Beautiful in all aspects. I loved her, and love her still.

I keep smiling. I’m not crying. I am so excited and so fucking happy for her. She’s no longer in any pain. There are going to be hard times, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do without her. But right now, she’s inside of me and absolutely everywhere, and I don’t think that feeling will ever go away. I love it. I love her.

Alright, Jamesy, pick me up and let’s float away.

August 24, 2003 – 3:35 a.m. – Where are you?

Mom, I dream of those days when I (at the age of six) would crawl up in between you and Dad on your bed and fall asleep under the covers next to your warm body.

Holy fuck, you have no idea how much this hurts.

September 24, 2003 – 2:45 a.m. – I see the sunshine in your eyes, I’ll try the things you’ll never try.

I can definitely tell you one thing right now, I am not feeling so hot. I miss my Mother terribly, and I’m going through a bit of an emotional block right now. I want to cry and I want create fucking rivers with them, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to cry. I can’t help but wonder why. I want to feel sorry for myself right now, okay? I’m eighteen years old. She was taken from me too early, wasn’t she? I suppose not, I suppose it was her time. But why? Why was it her time? I miss her. I want her here. I want her here right now. Okay, the tears are coming. Just somebody answer me this, please. I feel tiny, I feel very tiny. I feel like I can hide in a closet and nobody will find me. Finally I see her run frantically by looking for me and I can jump out and she’ll jump and then she’ll tell me how much I scared her and she’ll hug me and pick me up and sit me on her lap in the living room and kiss my face all over. I want her to be upstairs, I want her to be sitting next to me. I want her to drive me and let me be terrified of it (she was a bad driver).

I want my Mom.

I wish she was here so much. She’d help me with anything, you know that? No matter how mad she was about it, she’d help me do something about it and she’d help me through it. Anything, fucking anything.

I’m a little fucked up tonight. I did it to myself. I thought too much. I wished too much. I tried too hard to see her. I tried too hard to find her in between the lines.

We went to the veterinary clinic today. I pet a dog about 5 minutes before she was put down. And then this gigantic Mother’s Day (they haven’t changed the sign since) sign came across the electrical scroll sign and it said “Remember Mom” with a rose. It stayed up there for what seemed like hours. Dad and I just sort of stared at it. I muttered an “ouch” afterwards. He said, “yea”. I miss her. I fucking miss her. I want her here. I want to talk to her. I just want to fucking talk to her. I want to hug her. I want to kiss her. I want to tell her how much I love her. I want to see her smile. I want to see her. I just want to see her. I want to touch her hair. I want to hold her hand, again.

I will never have these things again.

There’s so much in life we take for granted. People, I don’t fucking care what your relationship is like with your parents, but if it’s decent enough for you to be able to hug them by the end of the day, just do it. Do it, okay? Do it, because I can’t hug both of mine anymore. And you have no idea how much that hurts. And to those who do, I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I can’t believe she’s dead. I can’t believe she’s fucking dead. My Mother is dead. That still doesn’t register properly with me. I don’t know what to do with myself right now.

I’m very lost tonight and I’m going straight into another anxiety attack. Oh, fucking excellent.

September 29, 2003 – 11:44 p.m. – Trespassing, onwards.

So, when one comes to the edge of the woods.
So, when one comes to the tip of the lake.

They say I have three addictions. They say I should never have started two of them, constantly. The third addiction is like a secret, but known very well.
1. Nicotine
2. Caffeine
3. Theinternet.com

Trying to pry myself from any of these seems to have become a close impossibility.

So, when one comes to the edge of the woods.
So, when one comes to the tip of the lake.
One stands there presented with an entire world of different possibilities; more paths than ever imagined. One stands there petrified and ready to run backwards two or three feet, back in to where they feel safe; to what they know best.
One stands there in glory; one stands there confused.

So, where does she go now? Her bags are packed, her boots are on, and she’s already had the door closed behind her. Always knowing she can still run back through that door, she can’t bring herself to do it just yet. She wants to try, she wants to see. She wants to try and see what she can be out there, in that monstrous world in front of her.

The real story behind the character of this crap writing is about me. I’m sitting here with a laptop upon my knees, sitting on my bed and a beer in between my legs. The “rain” scent of incense burning beside an alarm clock that says 10:54 (the dot up in the left hand corner representing the fact that it is after dark). My dog laying to the right of me, and a book I have recently started reading beside my right foot. I’m leaning against the wall. I’m slightly tired, and I’m slightly drunk. Drunk on this alcohol, drunk on these red Christmas lights that brighten my bedroom. Drunk on tonight, and drunk on the unknown and the excitement I have for the future.

So, where does she go now?

She remembers begging for someone to be there at the end of the bed of nails she has been trying to walk across for more than a year. Bottom of her feet bleeding; bottom of her feet numb. (And in reality, I wiggle my toes.)

She remembers knowing.
She remembers growing,
Up.
She remembers half-dying,
and she remembers being revived by beautiful eyes.

I could ask so many questions right now and none of them would ever be answered with what I would want to hear. Every single answer would be the same, ‘find out for yourself’. That’s just how it goes, I suppose. That’s just how you find out. I’ve been doing that for the past 18 years of my life, I figured someone could show me which step to take next. Impossible. Nonsense. Negative. Incorrect. Not a chance. I remember watching a movie and I remember one line that’s stuck in my head since I watched the entire horrible thing, “fate only takes you so far, it’s up to you to do the rest.” This has come to play in a lot of situations in my life since I heard it. I believe in it. It’s perfect. Especially for a person like myself, and her, and maybe him. Maybe even you.

I remember the last conversation I had about this, and I was shaking my hands and moving them in such a way to explain what I was trying to say. I hope it worked. I hope I was understood on some sort of level.
I rearranged my bedroom tonight. It’s been strange. Dragging all the old clothes out, dragging almost every single thing I own out into another room, boxing a few things. I felt like I was moving. It was a very frightening and overwhelmingly beautiful feeling. I was excited.

I wonder what will be done with this bedroom when I am gone. I know it will always be here for me. But once I move all of my things out, and have them shipped off to me wherever I am, I just wonder what will be done with this room. Will it be left empty for memories to reside? That would be sad. Maybe turned into another guestroom? That would be nice. Maybe an office? I think that may be it. Mind you, a guest room would seem more obvious seeing as there’s a bathroom right off to the side.

The clock says 11:04.
My dog is, literally, snoring.

I am soaring, I am roaring, I am trying so hard.
I am.

Maybe when things or people die, they really don’t. Maybe they do sit behind you and watch, maybe they glance in from time to time, maybe they are fate. Maybe they are the ones who guide you to it, and then let you make your own decision. So many what if’s and maybe’s in this universe. I just wish there were something to prove it all. That doesn’t stop me from thinking about it and thinking it’s a possibility or even believing it. I just wish we knew, I just wish we knew for sure what was going to happen to us when we die. But maybe it’s better we not know. The unknown can be so beautiful, or so I’ve found. So beautiful.

Another quote from a movie, “Every living creature dies alone.”
This is true and untrue.
With the actual process of dying, yes. They are alone, they are the only one passing on and letting go.
But on the other hand, they are not alone. My Mother was not alone. I was by her side, along with my Father and my brother, the entire time and the exact moment that she passed on; the exact moment that she took her last breath. I was there, I was playing with her hair, I was telling her that it was ‘okay’. And then it stopped, it was over. I could go on about my revelation, but I will not. I am not one to place my spirituality and beliefs on strangers, unless asked.

She is soaring, I am roaring, and we’re both trying so hard.
And she is watching, and I am telling, and she is guiding me to where I am supposed to be.

I am finished here, and I am off to start my new beginning.

It’s really interesting going back and reading my writing when I was 18 years old. Some of the things I used to get upset about, and then that. Some of my best writing occurred when I was coming to terms with what was happening and what happened with my mother.

When I started my counselling sessions earlier this year I was helped to realize that I had not grieved properly. My counselor, in April, sat me down and pulled up another chair beside us. I thought she was inviting someone else in to the room, which was a bit confusing. She told me my mother was sitting there. She told me to look at her and tell me what she was saying. I thought the idea was ridiculous, but I looked up and I could visualize my mother – she was sitting there, half resting on her knees with her hands, leaning forward a bit and grinning at me like she’d just figured out the answer to the ultimate question. I started laughing, and then I started sobbing. As much as I thought I would never try to push the memory of my mother aside, I did. I immediately felt guilty. It was like I hadn’t seen her in years. And I didn’t push it aside because I didn’t want to think about her, I did think about her every day, but I didn’t allow myself to truly feel anything when I thought about it. Now, here I was being forced to feel and experience it. I will forever be grateful to my counselor for that. It’s been a while since I connected with the memory of my mother during a time when I wasn’t falling completely apart.

I am angry that she is not here. I am angry that she can’t hang out with me now or see the changes my friends and I have made in order to better ourselves. She didn’t get to see Mikey get married. She hasn’t seen the leaps and bounds that my friend Heather has made in order to better herself and her life. She doesn’t see me. She isn’t here. It’s plain and simple, and it’s a hard fact that stares me straight in the face every day. I f*cking hate it.

But, with that said, that anger is easily subdued by the calming effect that the thought of her does have over me. Because, I don’t care what any other person’s belief entails, she is with me. She is all around me.

The only thing I am sick of is whenever I see a family member that hasn’t seen me in a while.  Some have this dramatic need to walk away from me because I look so much like her. That actually upsets me. I understand the flood of emotions that something like that triggers, but don’t ignore me and barely speak with me because of it. I’m still my own person, and I am your sister’s daughter. (This happened over the weekend and I’m still a bit sour about it. I’ll get over it.)

I don’t know what else to say right now. I’m still experiencing a lot with it. I can’t really put it in to words yet. Maybe I never will.

Anyway,

Mom, I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here. Always.

May you rest in peace.

Love forever, your daughter.