March 13, 2016
How do you let go of someone who has been everything? As crazy as this might sound, she has been Mother, Father, Best Friend, Boyfriend, Baby Daddy, Husband, Confidant, Protector, Solider, Warrior, Peacemaker, and Intercessor. Any role that I needed her to play, she played it, seamlessly, with love and devotion. She was there when I didn’t want her to be there. There when I wanted only her. There for every major accomplishment and failure in my life. She was there.
My beloved grandmother by biology, mother by calling, went to hear ‘well done’ on January 13, 2016.
I guess this one is more like a journal/diary entry than a valid part of the series. I want to write, but I just can’t get it out. In the same vein, I’m flip floppy on everything else in my life right now too.
I don’t want to eat for days, and won’t. But then, I go days eating so much until I make myself sick, knowing that I don’t really want it.
I want to be left alone, but I don’t want to feel lonely. I’m so offended if I feel like you haven’t called to check on me, but then I’m pissed off when you call and ask the same dumb ass questions that everyone else asked, knowing that I’m going to give you a false positive. Like, don’t you know me better than this? What kinda friend are you anyway??
I want to be in somebody’s arms, but I don’t want to be touched. Can you figure out how to comfort me, make me feel like your holding me close, without touching me at all? When you touch me I fall completely apart. When you hug me, I buckle. My knees wobble. I want you to pick me up and take me away from all the feelings. I don’t want to feel.
I want to be there for you in your time of need because I love you with my entire heart, but how dare you need me when I can’t even be here for myself? How dare you ask of me the last trail of strength that I have left? How dare you allow life to go on?
I need to be a mother, but I just want to be a child. I taught you how to cook, so feed yourself. Find another ride to school. Figure out your homework on your own. No, you can’t go outside cuz I don’t want to watch you. Who’s gonna wait on me hand and foot? Didn’t you hear that my mama dead? Why am I expected to do anything but lay in this bed, on her pillows, underneath her blankets, and stare at her pictures until I cry myself to sleep?
I need to get back to work, hell, find a job even, but I don’t want a job. I don’t want to go back to corporate America. They don’t appreciate the phenomenon that is me! They don’t see my real potential. They want me to hide who I am, pretend like I’m someone else, conform to the status quo. But I am a rebel. I am a radical. I’m tired of conforming. I want my children to see me do something great before I die! As soon as I’m done lying in this bed, on her pillows, underneath her blankets, staring at her pictures until I cry myself to sleep.
I want to move on, but I need to stay here. Somehow, staying in this place of pain, existing in this black hole of torture, allowing my anger to squeeze the breath outta me, keeps her alive. I need to stay in this space so that I can still see her, feel her, love her. If I move on, I lose her. I forget her smell. I won’t remember her laugh. She can’t hum that special hum she always hummed in my ear. I just need to stay here, with her, for a little while longer.
And I’m not sure I’ve made any progress at all. I’ll try this again at 3…