Christmas. Alone.

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The last time I saw my brother he said he was there for me.

That I always have a room at his house.

That he is on my side.

The day before I left, he told me to take my stuff out of his house.

Because things have changed. He and his wife are having a baby.

 

He knew this before he made claims of being there for me.

I know a baby means change, but the baby was only eight weeks in.

I’m happy for him, I guess.

In many ways I don’t care anymore.

I’m okay with that too. Maybe I should care more. But I don’t.

No one needs to seek abuse.

 

In this journey you realize you are alone and somehow have to be okay with it.

There is a shift happening inside me, where I am okay in this loneliness.

Sometimes I’m not.

But I’m more okay than not, right now.

I still cry over all this loss. But that’s okay too.

At least I feel.

 

Mom.

Step-dad.

Dad.

Brother.

All lost. All gone.

 

I have to take care of me, because no one else will.

And as much as this hurts.

It’s okay. I’m okay. I have to believe that.

As I go on to create my own tribe, I stand alone.

But my tribe is my choice.

 

Christmas has changed forever.

But I’m okay.

 

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“Friend Just Died I Don’t Know What To Do”

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My mom passed over two years ago and I stumbled upon this passage in a blog about grief, which really sums up the journey we go through and why we should celebrate each scar we gain in the process.

Ahead is the response, by an older man,  to the blogger who wrote, “My friend just died I don’t know what to do”.

“Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gorged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

Hope this helps you out.

Ahead is the link:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Assistance/comments/hax0t/my_friend_just_died_i_dont_know_what_to_do/c1u0rx2

Two Years Past….I Miss You Mom!

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It’s been two years since she left us.
Two years since I got the call.
Two years spent lost inside myself,
In a sea of pain, struggling against each wave.
Hoping for a moment of peace.

I’ve cried inconsolably.
Lost friends. Made friends.
Days spent staring at four walls.
Nights spent in a dreamless haze wondering,
“Could this be real?”

Mistakes. I’ve made so many.
Hoping she’d somehow come,
And set me straight again.
To have her scream at me.
To hear her yell, “Stop! I love you!”

I think back to that day, that year, these nights,
And wonder how I’ve made it through,
With most of my heart torn away.
I’ve become sensitive,
Each slight an open wound.

I wish I could say more happy things.
I wish I could not feel the pain.
I wish I could live each day, as she would want me to,
But right now, I just pull through,
And to me, that is victory.

I miss you, Mom.
You were the greatest. Are the greatest.
Today, I hold on to the love you gave me,
And ask those closest to me,
To treasure the love of a mom.

Black Widow

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After we lost our mother we were destroyed
Our house infiltrated by the devil
Eager to break our spirit
Eager to break our fragile bond
Took what treasure she could get her chubby little hands on
Heart
Soul

My mother’s “friend”
Demonic grin
Fake saggy tits
Cellulite ass
Clutching. Grasping.
Pursed bloated lips against a wine glass
Seductive to a blind man
Still married. She got a ring. A diamond ring
They’re only “things” right?

Single White Female in my mother’s clothing
Single White Female scavenging for jewels
Vulture. Bottom feeder. Tramp
Using her musky rotten scent to entrap a weak man
Dying her hair just the right color, just like my mom’s
Sending a poor fragile old soldier on the hunt for gifts
Not just any gift, the “just right gift”
The right expensive gift

A house ransacked
A grave desecrated
A family destroyed
Father against son
Father against daughter
Brother against sister
All in the name of “love”

Sad the women who get away with this
Sad the women who lack values, morals or goodwill
Sad the women who destroy the pure and good
But the Devil always gets hers
Someone looking. Watching. Waiting
An Angel
A hunter
To shoot the demon where it hurts

Right. Wrong. Way.

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Life seems to be a process of letting go. Over and over and over again– and over again. I am barely growing accustomed to not having my mom around. I still miss her so much. Long for her phone call. Long really for someone who really gives a fuck about me. I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s true. My mom. Moms in general. Really are, for the most part, the ones who really care about what happens to us on a daily basis.

So, in an attempt to be a good daughter, I have tried to keep the little family I have together. But to be crass again, they are assholes. Self-centered shits. Some therapists say, whatever you think of others, may be what you think of yourself. Well, that may be true, I am an asshole and a shit and sometimes a big murky pond of diarrhea, but you know what, I, at least try to care, or pretend to.

This past month has been yet another of separation. I see my therapist on a weekly basis. Sometimes, I think it’s good; other times I think it’s bad. But, I hope for the most part it’s good. Recently, in one of our sessions I came to the realization that my objective to keep the family together – in writer terms—has been in the “right-wrong-way”. At least that’s what we call it when our protagonist/hero, is trying to resolve their objective with proper intention and bad thinking coupled with some bad actions.

What have I been doing?

No. No. Not sleeping with another married man, but trying to salvage my relationship with my brother. How have I been accomplishing this you ask? Well. Emails, texts, phone calls. Reminders of our youth. Nostalgia. Words. Lots of them. Recently, all he has been able to say to me is, “the only thing we have in common is that we came from the same parents.”

OUCH. What a shit! Right?

So. I’ve resolved to do as he and my stepfather do and (yes, we don’t share the same father, but I guess he forgot that, I have no relationship with said biological dad either— another shit, right?), anyway, I have resolved NOT to give chase. I’ve resolved not to beg my object of affection, my dear brother, to be a part of my life, instead, I am releasing him while leaving the door open in case he wants to come through again. Life hurts, but begging is a form of self-flagellation I don’t need to participate in anymore.

I ‘m learning that family isn’t a blood relationship; it is a bond between two people or clan of people who want you in their lives. Who care about you. Who love you. This is all I want, and let me tell you, it’s liberating. Maybe, now, romantically I will call the right one in, now that I am no longer on the right, wrong way.

Stages of Grief. Where are you in your grief?

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After much reading and a lot of concern, I think, after 18 months since my mother’s passing, I am slowly coming out of the “Depression and Detachment” phase.  I am finally reaching out to friends.  Accepted some dinner dates and am hoping to find meaning in my life.  I miss my mother so much.  I am barely able to look back and smile at the life we shared, but still with a deep sadness.  I do think that I was fortunate to have had such a close relationship with my mother and am happy she was on Earth as long as she was.  One of the last things she said to me was, “I don’t have to worry about you anymore.”  Maybe that’s when she decided heaven was a better place for her.  I miss her so much, this is indeed the deepest heartbreak.

It’s the little things….

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I have this calendar hung on my wall from 2012, it’s theme is “How Much I Love Being Your Mother”– my mother gave it to me and I never take it down.  She passed in January of 2013. In it, is documentation of her trips to the hospital that year.

How could I not have seen it coming?  It’s sad to lose a mother and my mother was a great mother.  Funny how the little things moms give us, amount to so much.

That November, I distinctly remember feeling so utterly disappointed, displeased, shocked by my brother.  My mother had brought up that she would need a kidney transplant to my brother.  He had the audacity to say, “Mom, I can’t.  Because of my anxiety.  I don’t think I could handle a transplant.”  Then, my mother asked me, and I said, “Yes.”  My mom asked, “Are you sure?”  My answer was, “Yes.  Now if you ask if I want you or me to get operated, then, no.  But if it means having you around a lot longer, so you can finally eat some of the things you like.  Then absolutely, YES!”

What saddens me about my brother or the situation, is that it wasn’t me and my brother going at it on who would give the kidney, in my mind we should have been fighting for the honor.  But he so easily backed out.   I was scared, but ready, and he was okay to say, “No.”

Now, as I look at the calendar, I’m taken back to that time.  Telling her over Thanksgiving that she needs to get better, that we need to get her better, that we need to get the kidney thing going, because the only reason I ever visited home, was for her.  It was true.I miss her.  As I look at this calendar, it is a reminder of how limited our time is, of how limited her time was, for the sake of not ending on a platitude, it is a reminder that life is not what we do, but who we “do” it with.

I miss you, Mom. Thank you, for all the little things.