The problem with diggin for one thing, maybe an old pic of a dog you once had or verifying the childrens stockings are still in trunk and not shoved in a mysterious Christmas tote collecting mold,is that it leads to finding hidden treasures, or bones from dead lives as I like to call said treasures. Letters to my mom in rehab in 1993, a baby check up for me from 1978,verifying my mom took good care of me once upon a time, while still married to my sperm donor. How does a grown girl digest said info? As far as Im concerned I'm just a stay at home mom who does laundry, packs lunches, and waits for my favorite shows to come on. I'm boring, and ok with it. But when I find the evidence of a life that was once far from boring,not in an exciting way, more in a way, that even though I lived it, I have a hard time believing/remembering any of it happened to me. A friend recently reminded me I am not over my moms death.Shes right and how dare I try to say I am. Then reading those heart wrenching letters I wrote to her at the age of 14 or 15, they sound so sad, yet grown. She made me momma long before I ever wanted the duties. She has been dead for so long now I can barely comprehend I ever had her to begin with. The evidence is in trunk at the foot of the bed and in certain photos,never far. Yet when I see the photos of her, I often feel nothing, nada,as If I'm glaring at a ghost who was never alive. Other times my heart almost stops with grief wondering why??? Why was SHE born?Why was her life so hard. She wasnt abused,her sisters and their kids---allllll as freakin normal as they come. So why did SHE have hell to pay and bring my sis and I into her corrupt world to watch the trainwreck unravel before our baby,innocent eyes. Of course all I ever did was put my hands over my sisters ears and eyes to protect her.She has no memory of police coming to our houses. My mom breaking glasses,pots on porches and our dad holding her down and ME watching through my blinds crying until I couldn't anymore.My drunk mom screeching she couldn't breathe and that she didnt wanna die. I can only assume my dad was protecting himself not trying to kill her.Afterall, as far as I could ever tell he was the normal one. I remember being Brookelyn and Ashlees ages and hearing the door open at 2319 Harrison and I'd go running as fast as I could yelling yaaaaay daddy is home daddy is home.He would pick me up,he would hug and kiss me, help me with homework, go to teacher conferences, help out at the school carnivals, even building a go fish booth for lily b clayton. He was NORMALCY. yet I never dared asked 'whats wrong with mom'.No one spoke a word. There was a time I remember him taking Kristyn and I or maybe just me up to JPS to see Mom on the psyche unit. it was sad and scary and I knew other children were not spending their Sundays this same way. I stared at her like a foreign shell of a human,much the same way I stared at her lifeless almost dead body in 1997 when after 3 days hospital concluded she was brain dead.How could I stare at someone I loved so much, more than anyone on earth as if I wasn't sure what I was looking at. At her funeral, I stared at the urn the same way. Like wow,that shoebox of ashes was a human a few days ago and a human that grew 2 babies inside her body,and well did her best, despite her shameful efforts. I bounced so much between love and hate for her in her life that in her death I wasnt sure which to gowith. I ended up loving her in her death bc I decided she was out of pain andthat any mothering she did,bad or good was the only foundation I had to go on, and what I did with myself was no longer her fault if I turned out crappy. So I made it my mission to move on towards success. I wanted my degree, a professional job, a family of my own, moreso babies. I have spent a decade of mothering, trying to undo what was done to me. It brings me great joy that the children will never come home to a drunk mom,an empty fridge,and residue of cocaine on the coffee table. Nope not here. I will take boredom and laundry over any of my past. I'm not saying I'm not a little bit screwed up from it all. You just won't hear me admit it very often.I'm not perfect, I have issues that I feel are beyond my control,anxiety, insomnia and an overall feeling that although the outside is all stitched up, often the inseam is unraveling. I think on some days wow,house is cleaned, everyone got fed and bathed and I somehow feel like superwoman. Other days I think I cant do this,its too hard, being in charge of 3 tiny lives, sometimes just the idea of getting more milk is overwhelming.
but Im working on goals bc for the past year I havent had any. After my hysterectomy I just decided that living day to day was enough of a goal even though it made no sense, I had been put out my misery.
So with all that, I'm working on the inseam.
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