The Thing I Think and Don’t Say

This blog is about something real. Something so difficult the only way I am ever going to understand it is to write it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. This blog is not going to be easy to read. Even for me. In fact, stop reading it right now and forget you ever saw it.

I wont apologize to you for publishing it. Because every part of me sings with the need to shout from rooftops that I am here and cant do this alone.

I am the mother of a survivor. I am the mother of a Viking goddess. A warrior. A girl with cancer. A girl with secrets.

My baby girl. My sweet and only daughter. She is sweet, too. Not like some kids. She’s wise. You talk to her and forget she’s so young. She’s so poised, so smart. Such a beautiful poet. So good natured.

She has been hospitalized for suicidality, self harm and PTSD 6 times in three years. When it began, like everyone else, I thought it was me. My fault. I broke this precious thing I committed to God himself I would treasure. Protect. This wasn’t the 1st time I thought I was wrong for her, unworthy. Too crazy to be her mom. I tore my soul apart to undo what I had done. I lashed out. I kicked, I screamed, I still shout.

It didn’t help.

I committed to her recovery from poor parenting, hippie like parenting. I stopped listening to the wind for her. I tried to deny my own impulses… even if I was the only person aware I was denying them.

And it didn’t work.

I dont see someone anymore who doesnt 1st ask me, “How is Abby doing?”  because however she’s doing is also seemingly how Im doing. Sounds so sad for her when I say that out loud, poor kid doesnt have enough to deal with but she’s got this fucking shitty narcissistic mom to live with, too.

I hate myself for this. I swear to God I have the worst Goddamn instincts. I really do. I hope you’ll agree with me, and hate me too.

And it’s still my fault.

She’s still so fucking brave. So able to understand things, so bright, So innocent. So sarcastic now, that’s new. She wasn’t sarcastic before.

And then, back in December last year we were there in the ER after yet another blindsided suicide attempt… she told us. (there’s a lot more to what led to her telling us, and believe it is so relevant but in the interest of not overwhelming myself and in staying on topic—- we’ll go back to that another time.)

She told us about Sean. And his 6 years older self coercing his way into her pysche, her self, her body. The systematic abuse she’d succumbed to at his hand for 5 years. Sean my cousins son. He’s 20 years old now. Sean who now lives in Alabama

( yes, he really does live there and if you do privately message me so I can help you in a way I couldn’t help my Abby –)

Anybody besides me think it must have something to do with being of “southern blood” ?

Normally I wouldn’t allow or tolerate in another such ignorance of any single identifying trait in another race, creed, color, or background.  I’m not normal anymore. I’m angry. At myself for not seeing it sooner, for not stopping it from happening altogether.

It’s my fault.

I’m her mother and I failed her. In 1000’s of ways any mommy does when she’s a stupid Hippie moron. Hippie and moron are not synonymous with one another they just coincidentally are two of my more dominant traits.

I was a sorta kinda sometimes not so bad writer once, not anymore. I would apologize to you, but this bad writing here isn’t for you.

My Abber-bo-babber, my Bug… she was placed in residential treatment 30 odd days ago now. And I miss her. I miss her dirty socks in the mix, I miss her silly dances, I miss her laugh.

I see her once a week- usually on Saturdays.  And in between visits she is without a mother. A hippie moron momma shouldn’t be too concerned to let her seedlings grow wild and free wherever they go. But I’m a recovering idiot. (or trying to be) And I feel this displacement. I hate not knowing if she’s slept well, what if she needs me and I am not there? What if she can’t sleep, who will lay beside her in the dark and hold her hands and sing? Who will tell her everyday what a beautiful gift she is?

She is not okay. She is lonely. She gets scared. She’s still so little, she still needs hugged and kissed. She still needs me. She’s so fragile, so broken… to see something so beautiful so broken it does something so dark to you.

I would give anything to put her back together, to recover for her. To be the perfect consultant parent, the confidante she comes to, to be steady and even. But, I am not that. I try to imitate that. I’m so scared I’m not doing it right. How do I know if she needs more from me, or less?

A lot of people who know me, don’t like me. It makes sense to me. I don’t really like me, either. So it makes it hard when you’re searching to grow to know what instincts are good, and which ones aren’t.

I don’t trust anyone.

These thoughts are either totally helpful because they shine a light on the thing I am missing and keep cautious, aware. Seeing her true needs and the path to meet them.  Or, they’re simply a shame cycle I don’t know how to break.

I think if you’re me, feeling ashamed means you’re not a monster. That’s right. It means I do feel bad for the many many mistakes I have made. I feel them more than you can know.

I don’t deserve her.

I never did.

But I love her. I wont give up trying to be what she needs. Even when its hard. Even when I cant see my way out of my own fucked up shit. I won’t ever let my ego or my pride stop me from doing my literal and actual very best for her. (my best wont get most of you very far)

I will admit it has however made me useless to pretty much everyone else. I wish I could say Im sorry for that. I love you, I was lucky to love you and be loved by you in return. I hope you know I still do.

Letting It All Hang Out

She rides to treatment today with her knees drawn to her chest. She’s reading the book I started, and because she isnt the one driving she has now gotten ahead of me. The words drip off each page and fall like petals into her lap.

Treatment today will be filled with questions I can hear ringing in my ears. Why was she at the party? Didn’t we discuss her not being at the party? Did you observe her? I did. I think so? She’s hard to watch I always want to sweep her hair from her face. I always want to change her clothes. I hate myself for this. I wish I could just relax around her. She’s a time bomb to me. She’ll go nuclear again, and we’ll find her on the floor.

I feel so judged. I know it’s just me. Im doing my literal and actual best. I know this. I cant do more than this. I have twisted myself up, and feel like every instinct I have is wrong. So wrong I am afraid to leave any permanent marks anywhere. Nothing that cant be undone somewhere else. I am not good enough these days for writing words in ink. They must all be free to be erased and begun again.

I watch with curiosity as the other mothers make their way in and out and seem to hold a confidence I just dont. They look like they all finished college. I bet they didn’t have their sick daughter when they were 21. Its just plain too young. You know I hear speak of their kids being “cured” and I think to myself- “Fools!” This is a not a common cold. This is a cancer that lies dormant and go into remission only to strike again, without permission. riding in cars

The Frailty

I’ll begin with a disclaimer, I’m a naive optimist with a guarded heart and an open mind. Im just now figuring out you didn’t mean it when you told me to

“Seek and Ye shall find”

I don’t know what to do. I’m going out of my mind.

Maybe it would be better if I could blame you,

I don’t think I would love you this way if I could tame you.

We’re both such hypocrites. We want wings, with strings.

Its late, and getting later still…

In this dark hour, the tears have all gone sour.

Science says you can tell what caused a tear by its composition. I didn’t need the definition the tears are clouding my vision.

I know what you’re doing, its been done before. Just right now, no kidding! I can’t take this crap anymore.

Not that you’re looking, not that you can see, but I tripped and fell back there.

The lay of our land lies in your perfect hand.

You are my architect…

And I swear… even incomplete that hallowed ground moved with my heart to your simple sound-

From our garden you showed me the rainbow iris that can only be felt in your kiss.

And how stars hung there in our sky

A perfect constellation mirror your mystic eye

Still, seeds we planted born of love need an even spaced eyes, and Freedom Fighter

Petals push up breaking concrete without a sound and bring with them subtle promise your sweet refrain.

Star crossed petals fight to keep the life created from just the twinkle, and a little sprinkle of honey-dew.

Queen Bee waits for you.

She calls out, crestfallen.

Her Brave Knight is busy, neglects her, his Bride of Passion.

frailty

When you Know More You do Better

And that is where I start my atonement. 

I didn’t understand the scientific principles of cause and effect yet. 

I was deformed before I was fully formed. 

And like a bad case of voodoo economics…. A history stuck on repeat. 

A little girl with a tear stained cheek. 

Perception distorted, facial expressions contorted. 

And I stayed there in a narrow, dark place.

Until the limits of my perception broke… 

I’ve made enough mistakes- to swallow them all at once- it would choke. 

I’m not ready to be forgiven. But I am forever going to learn more, so I can do better- 

I will never stop doing that for her, because she’s my daughter. 

The Other Woman

This is a gorgeous letter. I am taking the time to say it to each and every one of you.
I love you ALL!

My Good Time Stories

Photo Credit: George Hodan via publicdomainpictures.net Photo Credit: George Hodan via publicdomainpictures.net

After 21 years of marriage, my wife wanted me to take another woman out to dinner and a movie. She said, “I love you, but I know this other woman loves you and would love to spend some time with you.”

The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit was my MOTHER, who has been a widow for 19 years, but the demands of my work and my three children had made it possible to visit her only occasionally
. That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie. “What’s wrong, are you well?” she asked.

My mother is the type of woman who suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign of bad news. “I thought that it would be pleasant to spend some time with you,” I responded. “Just…

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