the truth

the truth is i miss having a mother. having a person to call anytime of the day or night. a person i can be ugly, angry, unreasonable, babyish, whinny, whatever with. someone who loves me regardless. someone with big, dry, sturdy shoulders. someone who welcomed and still welcomes growth in her life. someone who's brave enough to admit she doesn't know everything. someone who's brave enough to stick through tough times. someone with a great smile and laughter. who doesn't take herself too seriously. someone who chides me for not being good at keeping in touch. someone who reminds me of the importance of cherishing and keeping good friends in and for life. sometimes i want someone else to play fortress. sometimes i want to be weak. break down and cry. sometimes i hate her for depriving me of all of this. there is a giant within me. and sometimes this giant cries like a baby. i rock it. i rock it back to sleep.

Prologue

there's a chance these posts will be pretty awful in the beginning. just until i manage to break through this huge concrete wall of resistance. part of it is i am bored to tears with the subject. i spent most of my life talking about my mother's absence; explaining it; reassuring people i was okay despite of it; but the truth is there IS something in there. in HERE. something that isn't quite okay. i'm just not sure where IT lies. i gotta do some digging. a lotta digging. there'll be a lotta dirt. in the not-so-exciting meaning of the word. rubbish. waste.

where do i start? where IS the beginning? if i knew the answer to this question i wouldn't be writing this blog...

so i guess i must start at the logical beginning. as far as i know it. the beginning of her life. but somehow i feel i have to start that with a new post. on another day...

For Better or for Worse

this is for myself. so that i get off my ass. or actually stay on my ass. and write this one woman show i've been saying for ages that i would write. i didn't know it was gonna be about my mother. but. here it is. i don't care if anybody reads it. i just need to write it. and write it. until it is finished. and all this shit is dealt with. that's right shit. i will not watch my mouth. i will not watch my spelling. i will not bother with capitalization. punctuation is enough. all i want is for this random crying to stop. this crazy shadow to stop following me. i want to understand. why my mother kept a copy of the book by Betty Mahmoody, "Not Without My Daughter", on her bedside table. and then she left. without both her daughters. i want to understand this mother myth. where does it come from? why do we need them. why is it that though she was never a good mother i sob uncontrollably sometimes. why is it that i feel that if she had died instead i would have put her on a pedestal. and my crying wouldn't be so intense. why?

i'm resisting this. i have been. for very long. at first because i thought there was nothing more to say. that i was done with my mother issues. and then i was at this event. and someone read a story. about a mother that left. and my body convulsed with tears. the kind that make you hiccup. without a thought. just an overwhelm of intangible feelings. and so i will write. until every word is written. until every tear is shed.