My mom died 20 years ago today. 20 years, it sounds so unfathomable. 20 years of a life that could have been. 20 years of absent memories. Each year this anniversary seems to come out of nowhere as we turn the corner from winter to spring, a small slap in the face and reminder of the sour pit in your heart.
From zero to ten she was my everything. A sensitive queer boy, I clung to my mother. Often so tight that one time in the grocery store I pulled her skirt down, exposing her in the check out line. She thought it was a riot, burst into laughter and picked me up for a hug. There was much joy in those early years. It felt as if we were inseparable and that this love would last forever. Attachment issues aside she was an exemplary mother, a great source of love and devotion to all of us. How I wish I could drive home one more time laying in the back seat with my head in her lap. People always said my sister took after my father, I my mother. I often look back and wish they never said that.
When I was around ten my dad had an affair. This launched a ten year spiral into addiction and near constant anguish, self-pity, and loathing. A dizzying turbulence of bed-ridden alcoholism, 911 calls, and occasional violence. Any semblance of a normal or happy family was gone. I stayed close by her side, I had to, there was nowhere to go. I would open her wine, split the Xanax, listen to endless ranting, and pick her dead weight up off the floor. “Men are horrible, they all cheat and betray, how could he do this to me, they can’t be trusted, you’ll be just like him” became daily affirmations. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. At eighteen I left for college but her voice and her torment followed me there. We remained tethered by daily phone calls and rambling messages, the barrage of which got me kicked out of one of my first apartments. No matter how hard I tried all those years I could not fix her, I couldn’t piece her back together to be the woman I once loved the most. I had failed to help her love herself or find the will to live a normal, complete life. Then, 20 years ago today while in my last semester of school and a week until my birthday I woke up to a message on the answering machine, a friend saying “I’m sorry.” After ten plus years of madness and many attempts at suicide she finally succeeded in taking her own life.
I’d be lying if I told you adult relationships have been easy. It’s simple enough to meet men and jump into bed but after that comes the hard part. As soon as you let someone in you have someone to lose. That heightened sense of alarm is insidious, creating so much doubt as you brace for the inevitable. When will the other shoe drop? When will he hurt me or I him? Or how can I fix him or he fix me? Social and work life have their own challenges when you approach engagement with apprehension. I’m ok with resolutions and intentions but poor at follow through. I often find myself struggling to connect to others. To feel part of this world and worthy of belonging. This perceived inability to engage fully and to form meaningful and trusting relationships has long planted seeds of shame and confusion. A longing and emptiness that has born out in my life in so many ways.
To say the last year has been hard on all of us belies the true depth of the moment. COVID has forced us into isolation, turned up the dial and shoved fear, loss, and loneliness in our faces. Needling old wounds and adding fresh layers of trauma. While I count my blessings and good luck I can’t say that I’ve pulled through unscathed. Some friendships have been damaged and I’ve found myself falling into old patterns, coping using means outside of myself.
And then something quite wonderful happened. Two weeks ago today during some assisted therapy at home I was floored by a vision, a flashback of my mother, that shattered through my spine and ripped my tight, clinging chest wide open, leaving me drowning in laughter and tears for hours. Those hours stretched to days. Catharsis. I can’t share this vision with you, the truths of which are too raw and painful. But the clarity of its message has been a great gift. Because I realized it isn’t just a traumatic past that makes me who I am today. A pubertal mind had been programmed to associate love and relationships with suspicion and fear. A kind of brainwashing just when I was coming to terms with my sexuality. A boy hard-wired to believe love is deception, and an affront on love could be a reason to no longer want living. This thread may seem obvious to some but I can tell you just how hard it is to see through the fog of a poisoned mind. To understand better the ‘why’ is to be freed of the shame that there is something innately wrong with you. It took 20 trips around the sun to get me to this place I find myself today and I am eternally grateful for this moment. To understand yourself more fully is to create space for change and release yourself from pain and guilt. Where there was once a wall there is now a door.
I wish I could share this gift with my mother. I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the conditioning she went through as a child, the full story is long since buried. After her death my grandmother lost the will to speak, and then to eat, and she passed on the next Christmas eve. My grandfather died much later but I never had the courage or desire to discuss any of it with him.
If you are struggling with thoughts of self harm or suicide, or are struggling with drugs and alcohol, please know you are loved and you belong, and please reach out. Because life is a blessing and worth living, and we all have the capacity to love and let in. If I’ve ever been cagey around you, or lashed out at you, or cheated on you, or pushed you away or hurt you please know I am sorry.
May we be safe. May we be physically well. May we be mentally well. May we live life with ease.
Love you mom.
