Mother’s Day came and went this year without a post from me. It was the second one without my mom and in all honesty, I was unprepared for how hard it would hit me. Most of last year was spent in a haze of personal grief and collective mourning for all that we were losing almost daily. I was numb last year. This year I felt the weight of my own personal loss. Perhaps, I should say, I finally allowed myself to feel the weight of my loss.
Like lots of mothers and daughters, my mom and I had a complicated relationship. Sometimes we were so alike that most people would never notice how vast our differences were. And, I think I always believed those monumental differences meant that I would never be the daughter she was proud of. I always believed the times she voiced doubt about my choices or concern for the direction of my life it was judgment. I thought her interest in our commonalities was pressure for me to do those things the exact same way that she did. I never suspected that perhaps I was teaching her or that she was excited to see something she loved become something important to me.
I’ve been struggling in therapy a lot lately which is really how it goes. Every breakthrough is followed by a breakdown. Because growth can be as painful as it is powerful. Both awesome and terrifying. So, my therapist gave me homework. I had to write a letter to myself laying out all of the reasons why I’m not that broken person I was in my past. The girl I jokingly call, The Well Dressed Mess. The Bespoke Basketcase. The Fuck Up in the lovely Frock.
I won’t go into all the details I laid out in that letter but the one that is sticking with me and the one I’ve been unable to really say out loud is that I can’t be that old version of myself because I am my mother’s legacy.
In the few years before she died, we weren’t very close. Miscommunication and hurt feelings were at the root of it. But, I’d finally started to work past some of them. We started talking a little more. My visits weren’t so few and far between. Honestly, I thought we’d have more time. We didn’t. And I’ve carried so much guilt. Guilt that wouldn’t let me say that I miss her so much. Guilt that wouldn’t let me tell people how very much I loved her. And that guilt would never let me say that I can’t go back to being the well-dressed mess because it’s not who my mom raised me to be.
Whenever I was facing a conflict or a crisis, I could go to her. We’d have coffee and I would cry it out. She’d wipe my tears and rub my back. Saying, “I know….I know…it’s okay sweetie….” over and over until I was soothed. When I was ready to go back out into the world she’d give me a hug and whisper “give ‘em hell, Rae!” in my ear as I left.
So even when the fight to stay mentally healthy is incredibly difficult and all of the demons from my past are being kept at bay by the thinnest of razor wire, I will not be that person ever again because I’m starting to realize that I’m growing into the woman my mom always knew I was.
I’m still here mama, and I’m doing my damndest to give ‘em hell!
