Still A Mother

Broken and still standing.

I started writing this a few Sundays ago but began hyperventilating when I wrote about my mother’s note. So, I stepped away from the piece. Only to return to it because the words will not leave me alone.

Photo by Robert Thiemann on Unsplash

I hate Mother’s Day. I always have. Mostly because it is a reminder of what’s missing.

This year I have a special treat for the day. Neither of my kids want anything to do with me.

So.

Am I still a mother?

That’s the question I keep asking myself.

If they both have decided that I’m not the mother they feel they deserved, do I keep the title?

I admit that I made mistakes. I admit that I didn’t make a lot of money to be able to do things that others could do. I admit that I did the very best I could and still it wasn’t enough for either of them.

So, do I turn in my half of the dna given to them? Do they get some sort of refund? Do I?

I am guilty of not being enough. Not having enough.

Apparently I was “never a mother.” Or say some.

I am a lot of things in life, but intentionally cruel has never been one of them.

Photo by Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

I used to wonder if I had killed my mother. By cutting her off from me. She was a terrible addict, her addiction drove her to do some really awful things.

A few months before she died she went on a two week bender with a bunch of strangers she’d met while she worked at a gas station. She just disappeared one day. My stepdad called me in a blind panic because she never came home from work and no one at her job knew anything. We called the police, the hospitals, the morgues, and filed a missing persons report.

I was a wreck.

I was pretty sure she was dead.

And then one day a mysterious call was made to my aunt’s house, the person had asked for me. My aunt took the number down and I called it back from my house. A stranger’s answering machine picked up. My mom called me back a few minutes later. Acting as if nothing was wrong.

I blew up and told her I was done with her. She’d hurt me for the last time. I told her I would never speak to her again and she’d never see her grandchildren again.

I wasn’t cruel. I was honest. Her addiction was out of control.

I didn’t speak to her for months. Until my stepdad called to tell me she was in the hospital and something was wrong with her brain. I finally spoke to her. She begged me to forgive her. Sobbed like I’d never heard her sob before. And I broke down and did. I forgave her.

I went out to Vegas for my cousins wedding a few weeks later and saw her there. She didn’t look good and was clearly not well. We spoke a little bit and then I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek, told her I loved her, and I left.

She died two weeks later. By suicide.

I have wondered for 18 years if I played a role in that. In her note she said she believed she could do better for me by not being here. That we were all better off without her. When I read her words I lost a piece of myself that I don’t think I’ve ever gotten back.

A few years later, when I made the decision to end the marriage I was in and my son stayed with his dad, one of my “best” friends for years told me that my children were better off without me. Fifteen years later, I guess they agree with her.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

I’m not sure how my heart beats around the broken shards lodged there. I’m beginning to wonder how much of my heart is even still intact. Almost every worst fear I’ve ever had in my life has come true.

And yet…

I’m still standing.

Barely.

I miss my kids. More than they will ever understand.

I dream about them all the time. They’re always little, sometimes babies, and I am always trying to hold onto them. In every dream.

I wake up with empty arms. And I forget how to breathe.

I am not quite sure how to fix this now. I feel like it’s so easy for them to just let me go. It seems that’s the trend these days. Push people away that you don’t agree with or don’t understand or don’t want to understand. Maybe that’s okay I guess. If I’m the cause of someone’s pain, then yeah boot me out of your life. I get it. I certainly don’t want to be the cause of their pain.

But I don’t know how to not love them. Not that I even want to. I love them. Period. That’ll never change. I wish it was enough.

I don’t know right now how to make it better.

So I’ll give it to the gawds of time and space. And wait patiently while hoping. Maybe someday it won’t be this way.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to remind them that I’m still a mother. Always theirs.