Sunday evening Wes' dad Paul took Wes and I out for dinner.
We went to this little hole in the wall bar/restaurant in Maplewood--never had been there before. Obviously Wes' parents know me; afterall, Wes & I have been dating for 4 months. I've been at their family gatherings, dinners, slept under their roof, ate their food, done activities with them, etc. I always kind of wondered when the questions about my family were going to arise. I guess in a way I had gotten so accustomed to accepting them as my own family, that it started to bandage the pain from my own family. But whenever I was reminded of my family's reality, a part of me felt ashamed. Not that my family's reality is all my fault, but because here was this family that had accepted me for who I was--opened their home & hearts to me, and loved on me since the the second I met them--no questions asked. Then there was my family; torn apart, hurting, broken, complicated, blended, & facing huge hardships.
Now, don't get me wrong. We all know every family has their issues. Mine just has a little more extreme cases than most.
We started off having general conversation. Small talk about the past week, the "To-Do" list for this coming week, how jobs are going, etc. Then came the question, "So how old were you when your parents divorced?" Paul asked.
I started telling him the general facts; parents divorced when I was 7, mom had us full time while dad had custody rights every Tuesday and every other weekend. Didn't get along with dad until age 18. Went to court my entire adolescent life. Both mom and dad remarried . . yada yada yada.
Then he started asking a few deeper questions--and the topic of my mom got brought up. After I finished explaining the whole story, he asked a question I never had really been asked before.
"So how do you feel about your mom now?" he questioned.
How do I feel about my mom now? I thought to myself, I don't know? How do you feel about someone that was your rock, your role model, your support, your best friend, and your mother for 18 years, then none of those things in a matter of seconds? How do I feel about her now?
Obviously I've thought about this question to myself in my own time--processing is vital. But I've never really been straight out asked that question by someone else. It's a logical question to ask--and for some it may seem like a simple question that should have a simple answer--but that question is nowhere near simple for me and the answer definitely has nothing to do with simplicity.
"I miss her . . but I miss who she used to be." I paused for a second nearly choking on my words, "She's become someone she's not. So in a way . . it's like she's dead."
I've brought up this very thing to my therapist before. "It just feels like she's dead," I said. And her response while looking at me with the most sympathetic and meaningful eyes replied, "Well, I'm sure in a way it almost would be easier if she were dead. Not that you want her dead, but I'm sure it would be easier than dealing with this constant rejection for a year and a half straight day in and day out."
Tears streamed down my face. That was exactly it. Exactly.
I would never wish my mom dead. I would never wish harm on or to her. But sometimes the pain of knowing she's alive and very well could have a relationship with me or at least the decency to talk to me on the phone, but instead she blatantly chooses not to? Is a pain that cannot be described. Especially when we once were inseparably close. Then comes the feeling that I knew all too well in my childhood--the feeling of having absolutely no control.
To this day, I have nightmares where there are awful situations that I cannot control. People dying, getting raped, tortured, my family in pain, etc. I wake up in a cold sweat, sometimes kicking or crying. And even though they are just dreams, they still hold the same general idea that my reality holds as well--no control.
Yes, I have control over how I treat things. I have control over my thoughts. I have control over my actions. I have control in those senses--but I don't have control over my relationship with my mom. And sometimes that reality hits me like a bus and it feels like I got the wind knocked out of me.
I call.
I leave messages.
I try and try and try.
Maybe this time she'll answer. As the phone rings, and rings, and rings. Until the dreaded and all too familiar "You have reached the voicemail box of 'Julie' *said in her voice*." Just that small excerpt "Julie" in her own voice. Sometimes that simple "Julie" gives me comfort, and sometimes it makes me want to chuck my phone at the wall in frustration, anger, and pain.
Then occasionally a few minutes later I'll get a text explaining that she won't talk to me on the phone.
And this roller coaster continues. There's days where I'm doing great, then there's others where I'm not doing so great. There's days where I accept it for what it is, and there's days where I suffer in pain because this isn't how things should be.
Whenever "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes on.
Whenever I come across a picture of us.
Whenever I come across a video of us.
Whenever an inside joke that we shared comes to mind.
Whenever I go grocery shopping.
Whenever I smell certain perfumes.
She comes to mind.
So here I am, expected to deal with the aftermath that this all leaves me with. Frankly, what does "deal with it" entail? What does that even mean? Do I say that with the predisposition that "deal with it" means that it is possible for it all to disappear? Do I expect myself to forever be normal about it? I don't know. I'm trying to figure that out.
As I do that, I have committed myself to allowing this to make me stronger--to learn from it and allow it to build me up rather than build me down overall. This is no "normal" circumstance, I'm very well aware of that. But I refuse to allow that (or any other reason for that matter) be an excuse to use the "victim" card.
I realize this roller coaster is never going to stop (unless by some miracle, the exact miracle I cling onto with hope and pray for perseveringly that things will be restored, renewed, and back to good). I'll always be reminded of her. I'll always miss her. I'll always long for her. But it's the "her" that she is no more. And for that, I am mourning a loss.
