A year ago, I started this blog.
I had narrowly escaped a mental breakdown over the week of my birthday. I turned twenty-five and felt an inexplicable and overwhelming amount anxiety.
That was only partially because of you.
This blog started because I needed a way to speak to you. At the time, physically speaking was out of the question. You had made the point of repeatedly saying to other people that it wasn’t something you wanted. And I tried the best I could to deal with that. I tried to see things from your perspective.
But you gutted me.
So I began writing into the void hoping that it would help. I wrote about whatever came to mind when I reviewed my week. At times it was brutal and I sobbed because losing my Mom was devastating.
Even though you were still living.
And I needed my Mom a lot this year. I needed her each time you were in the hospital. I especially needed her when speaking to your doctors about your psych evaluation. I needed my Mom when I cleaned out your boyfriends hoarder apartment and when we went apartment hunting. I needed my Mom when I put my childhood cat to sleep.
But I managed and I had Dave when I wavered.
Then things started to change. You started to look like my Mom when you began eating and going to work again. You started to act like my Mom when we had our first family dinner in years. And you started to sound like her when you began to regularly speak to me again, especially when you started saying you loved me again.
I’m still working on managing that.
As dysfunctional and strained our relationship has been throughout my lifetime, you’ve always been my mother. It’s not what I would have wanted or expected when I was younger; when the concept of my Mom was at its purest. But you are part of the fire that forged me- burns, scars, and all.
And after a year, I’ve come to be okay with that.