This is a post that I've been meaning to write for quite awhile now...but I was afraid to. Seeing as how this past Sunday was Mother's Day I thought it was a good time.
Today I'm going to talk a little about my mom. I don't know a whole lot about my mom's childhood, I don't really know her parents that well, and honestly if most of her siblings walked into my office and slapped me right now I wouldn't recognize them. I have about a decade worth of memories of my mom, a handful of stories that others have shared with me, and a few pictures. In other words this post may not be the most historically accurate...but historical accuracy isn't really the point today.
When I was a kid I absolutely adored and idolized my mom. She was such an amazing woman, I know I'll never possess the words to accurately describe her. I can remember wanting to be just like her. I always wanted to be right where she was...I probably annoyed the piss out of her following her around the way I did. But to know my mom was to love her. She was such a beautiful person, inside and out. She was smart, funny, talented, outgoing, and stylish...so basically the complete opposite of me. She could walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a whole new circle of friends. I have never been like that, I am generally pretty shy unless I feel really comfortable with people. It takes me awhile to trust people enough to open up and let them in. She was also very crafty. I think maybe this is one reason why I want to learn to sew so badly. Maybe part of me wants to feel like I was like her in at least some small way. Because let's face it, I will never have the style thing down...I do good to get out of the house with an outfit that even matches.
When I think about her I recall her always laughing and happy. This is probably where my historical accuracy is way off kilter because my mom committed suicide when I was a kid. I've spent a lot of time being angry with her, and I've spent a lot of time defending her. I have days that I get so mad that I could cry...and I have days that I am overjoyed to have had the short amount of time with her that I did get. I suppose this inner struggle will continue forever...but no matter what, I will always remember how she made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.
Obviously depression runs in my family. My mom's dad committed suicide, my mom committed suicide, and I have attempted to commit suicide....twice. You would think that after seeing how what my own mother did that I would not be so selfish, and I would not want to do the same thing to the people that care about me. I've turned this thought over in my mind so many times that I can't even being to count them. I've spent a bit of time in a mental health facility (that was no vacation), and I've been to numerous counselor/psychiatrist types. What did I learn from all of this? Pretty much nothing. I seem to always get really pissed off at these "experts" and generally don't see them more than a handful of times. I've had doctors tell me everything from, "it's your mom's fault" to "you wouldn't have these issues if you weren't gay". My response? "Ok, you fucking jackass, I have a question for you now. How many straight patients do you see daily? Because obviously straight people are the picture of mental health". But I digress.
Back to my mom. Do I think that I am the way I am because of my mom? Hell, I don't know. Do I blame my mom? Nope. I am an adult, I am reasonably intelligent, and I am completely capable of making my own decisions. The choices I have made are my own. In a
previous post I talked about a worry angel that I received while I was in the hospital. That particular trip to the ER was the direct result of me taking a couple of bottles of tylenol...I seriously don't know how my liver pulled through that one. In that post I said that it reminded me to be the heroine of my story, and not the victim. My mom allowed herself to be the victim of her story...and that is the ultimate tragedy.
