Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Those days.

They have become very few and far between, but there are still days that hit me like a silent bullet to my chest.  It actually takes me a half a day to realize why I am starting to cry in the Subway line waiting for my turkey and provolone on wheat.  My insides are just jumbled, my skin is paper thin, and my ability to take even a sideways glance is non-existent.  I feel as though I am made of the most delicate porcelain; my being is fragile, breakable and unable to be touched.

These are the days that, even at 40 years old, I become acutely aware that I am longing for my Mom to tell me everything is going to be OK.  The need doesn't come around much anymore, but it usually follows a period when shit has hit the fan in triplicate, my hormones are ping ponging all over the place, the Hubby has been on long stretches of work and commuting and I'm left spinning and feeling out of control of even the tiniest thing.  

The thing is, a Mom is supposed to be the constant, the one who will always kiss my hurts away.  That is the way it is supposed to work. And then they die. And no matter how amazing my friends and family and framily are, I just want, need really, to put my head in her lap and have her reassure me that I am not a big fuck-up.  I try to comprehend how, in my life that is filled with so much love from others, I can in these days feel so utterly and painfully alone from the death of just one person.  

And I have been through this enough times that I know there is no silver lining to these days.  There is no comfort in the trite greeting card cliches of "You know she is always with you."  Those comments are as soothing as a ghost pepper to my cornea.  There is nothing that makes it better.  I just know that eventually I will fall asleep and wake up to a new day, with puffy eyes and a slightly better outlook.  But in the meantime I sit in my Wonder Woman underwear by my snoring oblivious spouse and try to put words to the pain, hoping that maybe if I can describe it a bit that maybe it'll ease the pressure... like opening a festering wound a bit, allowing the yuck to drain out slightly and maybe it won't hurt quite so much.

Friday, May 1, 2015

Thrifting and prayers.

Recently my daughter and I spent the afternoon thrift shopping.  I've come to realize thrifting is my own warped sense of gambling... "What kind of vintagey cool unique thing may I stumble upon today?"  For her it is an afternoon of developing her style.  I believe in a style, not a fad or name-brand.  The current style her 7 year old self is cultivating resulted in an abundance of cheetah print.

As we walked to the last store, we heard the commotion before we saw it.  There was a young man, probably in his 20's screaming a profanity laden tirade as he and his pregnant female companion walked down the main street in our small town.  My daughter cowered into my side, gripping my hand tightly asking "What is he screaming about Mommy?"  I answered that I was unsure, and she asked, "Is it drugs Mom? Is that why he is acting that way?"

My life experiences have taught me that the young man was either suffering from the effects of alcohol, drugs and/or mental illness and my heart broke a little for him and his female companion that was obviously trying to make "everything better" as she chased after him to desperately cling to his arm.

As the local officers arrived to calm the man, my daughter stood peering out the window, intently taking in the scene.  The officers, the young man sitting on the sidewalk, and the upset female were knitted together in a disjointed web of society on the corner of the street in the late afternoon sun. 

Several times over the next few hours, my daughter said abruptly, "That was scarey Mom."

I finally had the foresight to ask, "What would you do if your boyfriend screamed like that?"  "I would run Mom. I would run and call the policeman, or just run away."

Oh baby girl... I pray you still feel this way when you are 16, or 24 or 33. 

I pray that you listen to that gut voice that screams RUN when your heart is saying "But I LOVE HIM." 

I pray that you know the difference between supporting someone who is struggling and trying to fix him. 

I pray that if you ever feel scared by the way someone is treating you, that you run. Run to a girlfriend, or your brothers or to your Daddy and me. 

I pray that you understand being alone is more fulfilling than being in a toxic relationship. 

And I pray that you never ever lose your fantastic sense of style to the pull of a passing fad.