It has been one year since my mom died. It feels a little bit like I’ll see her in a few weeks and she’s still tucked away, lakeside living in that little sepia lit house. Every memory feels like it happened an hour ago, but also as if there’s a very real possibility it never even occurred. I have spent considerable time dwelling on the idea that she held a lifetime of memories of me that expired with her. I’ve been half existing ever since. …
The hospital stay lasted a lifetime when we were all in it. It has been nearly eight months since my mom died, and it feels like no time has elapsed at all. And her birthday has somehow crept closer: 60th, a milestone. I’m a bit lost, I don’t know the protocol here. We don’t have a burial or physical spot where I can just sit with her and mourn. All those years we complained she was far too willing to receive birthday gifts, I just wish I could give one. I’d give anything in the world for a minute with…
The women in my life — a topic I’ve avoided writing about for some time. It is a source of great shame, immense confusion, and profound loss for me.
Admittedly, the vast majority of my friendships for nearly the past half-decade have been with men. And while I hold these interactions in the highest regard, the importance of female friendships is intrinsically different. At all times, I sit somewhere between desperate yearning for this connection and being totally fulfilled knowing that I don’t have any women consistently antagonizing me.
I’ve been happily existing without competition, jealousy, disregard, miscommunication, undertones of…
My mom died. The gravity of that statement is heavy. It’s a weight that I’ve been coping with, adjusting to. An everlasting lump sitting in the back of my throat, a conversation I always want to have when nobody asks for it. She died unexpectedly during a 13-day hospital stay. A blur of moments, specialists, emergencies, unasked for insight into end of life care — which isn’t really care at all.
I want to write about it as much as I want to call her. I could write 13 chapters detailing every conversation, fill 13 chalkboards with my half-assed medical…
I have been hoping to put this to paper, but I’ve been patiently waiting for something: for it to cave in or for it to develop much further first. How could I describe something without it slipping into a sort of comparison of past experiences, of people, of geography, and days? What if I penned a piece only to have it unravel soon thereafter? But I want to feel it fully, and I want to share with perfect strangers everywhere these moments because what if it ends up being great, what if I could catalogue it from conception?
He asked me, “are you this way with everyone?” Honestly? I’ve spent a lot of emotional energy trying not to make him special or enjoy this fully: anxiety and anticipation.
He doesn’t know —
I wanted to answer yes, I’ve been this way to every man before you.
I wanted to apologize for every man that has wrecked me before you.
He’s constantly reassuring me that I do deserve real love —
I’m passive, it’s always nice in the beginning,
I’m cynical, convinced this is the reality of adoration.
I have him now knowing I’m choosing Europe —
I’ll move instead of giving us adequate time,
I’ll pick France instead of admitting I might want to try.
Because I can’t trust in him more than I respect myself.