Dear Mom,
Mom and me while getting ready before my wedding. September 4, 2010. |
It’s been a year since
I kissed you goodbye. So much has happened and changed since you left, and I
think you’d be so proud of all of us.
I have said a few times
that I miss you the most on bad days. I think I say that because you always had
a way of helping me regain perspective; it’s never the end of the world, meltdowns
are often avoidable, and pity parties are overrated.
The truth is that I
think I actually miss you the most on the really good days. I have only had a
few truly great, smiling from ear-to-ear days since you've been gone, but God,
I miss how exciting those days would have been to you. You loved good days.
Dad, Kassie and I have always thought the motto “If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy” to be a lot funnier than it’s actually meant to be, simply
because of how completely, one-hundred-percent true it always was. If you were
unhappy, stressed, angry, or upset – it was hard to be happy. If it was our
fault that you were angry or upset, we’d tiptoe around to try to keep from
making it worse. If it was an outside force, we’d try to cheer you up. But the phrase
can also be inverted, because when you were happy it was contagious. If you were
proud of us, we beamed. If you had fun at a party, chances were that there were
many smiling faces around you.
I've fought a lot of
battles with myself this year, and I haven’t won all of them. It has been very,
very hard, and there were a few days when it wasn't worth it to get out of bed.
How was I supposed to function without all the texts, emails, and phone calls
we once shared? How was I supposed to go to the mall to buy shoes when the
shadows of all of our fun shopping trips were there to remind me of how alone I
was? What was the point in writing anything or making anything when you weren't there to tell me how great or creative you thought I was?
How was I supposed to
find the strength I needed – the strength you’d told me I had – without you
there to remind me how to find it? No one understood me the way you did. And no
one ever will.
Thanks to hours of
therapy and reflection, I feel like you’re not completely gone anymore. You’re
not physically here, and it is a struggle for me every day to cope with that,
but I've started to feel you in my gut.
I say “gut” and not “heart”
because my heart is weak and not to be trusted. It is broken and wounded, and
so I treat it very gently but don’t listen to it very often these days. My gut,
however, is where you are. It is where my strength and fortitude live. When my
heart tells me that I’ll never be whole again, and that I can’t take any more
pain, my gut roars through my veins, “Pity parties are over-rated!” My gut
reminds me what you’d say to me, and encourages me to move forward through the
pain.
I used to become
inconsolable when I tried to think about what you’d say or do in a situation.
It wasn’t fair that you weren't here to tell me yourself. I cursed God, the
universe, and every doctor and scientist who ever lived. But now that some time
has passed, and, as I hesitantly admit, I’ve gained some distance from that
awful night, I rely on your voice. You've talked me through some really rough nights,
and helped me regain perspective when it’s been lost.
I know, because of who
I am and who you were, that I will always miss you. I’ll always wish I could
text you when I’m having a bad day or have lunch or go shopping. But I also
know I couldn't have gotten through this year if you hadn't been the wonderful
mother you were.
I love you. Always.