Stages. The stages of mourning the idea of a mother I would never have. Twenty-five years of my life living in the coma of denial. Denial that I was worthy. Denial that I mattered. Because clearly I didn’t. And then this human being, this sweet, lovely, hilarious man, loved me. Loved me, not “regardless” of my ways, but “because” of my ways. Because of all of me. And that was the slap in the face that I needed to wake up. And so I got angry. And I was mean to her. Hoping that would wake HER up. So she would finally SEE me. See ME. But it didn’t work. So there was the phase of begging and bargaining. And that didn’t work either. That’s when I realized that nothing would ever work. That nothing I ever did would ever be good enough. That you can teach an old dog new tricks, but not this one. And I gave up. But the depressed kind of give up way lasted for mere minutes before it became a release kind of give up way. I let go of the dream that was never there in the first place and was dragging me down. I accepted that it was never meant to be anyway and I jumped headlong into the love that was being thrown at me by someone amazing. And I found myself. I found happiness. I found calm. I found joy. And I won’t look back. Because now she is dying and trying so hard to grab onto me and squeeze again. Squeeze the joy out of me. Pull me down to her level of pain before she goes. But I won’t let her. She can’t do anything at this point to ruin what I have made of my life. What I made without her help. What I made without her.
I originally wrote this in the last weeks of my mother’s life. It has taken time for me to feel like I can publish it here.