Lump.

Last weekend, my Mother called me up and said she needed to come over so I could look at her neck (as if I am some kind of professional on mysterious growths, or something). She arrived earlier than she said she would, as she tends to do these days, a look of sheer terror on her face. Upon looking at her neck, I was immediately concerned, as she has grown a notably large lump on the lower right side of her neck, near the collarbone. We obviously didn’t talk much about it, and she proceeded to make an appointment for a biopsy; that appointment is today. I will be driving her to this appointment today because she asked me to; and in all honesty, I feel like I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.

 

Anyone who reads me, knows about my deeply embedded Mommy Issues that reside within my heart and mind, stemming from childhood and very much alive and well to date. A few months ago, I decided that because the Holidays are so incredibly horrendous and ugly for me, and because they are so extremely difficult to get myself through alive each year, that I will do something different this year. I basically feel tired of spending my holidays alone, in the fetal position underneath the dining table, in tears, beating myself to an emotional pulp through with guilt and regret and failure. I have written also about the Hell that my offspring is currently putting my parents through, resultant of their own enabling behaviors towards her throughout her life. My mom claims to feel like a hostage in her own home etc. Needless to say, I can totally relate to what she says in regard to my daughter; I have so been there with her in the past as well.

So, in a moment of frozen brain capacity, I said to Willow:

“Let’s start a new tradition this year for Christmas, just you ‘n me…”,

completely expecting her to laugh in my face at such a proposal.

 

When she actually showed interest in my idea, and I explained to her what I had in mind for my own part (a quiet, peaceful, nostalgic, quaint Bed ‘n Breakfast in the heart of Gold Country for Christmas Eve and Christmas), she was so excited and intrigued that she actually asked me to take her online for a virtual tour (she hates the internet and anything even remotely associated with it), which I did. We have, since that time, hammered out every minute detail of our upcoming holiday excursion together; and I must say that it feels like it has been a healthy form of bonding, somehow. I even got her a snow suit and boots that she already wears at night when she goes outside in the cold to smoke and play Mahjong until 0-dark-thirty, it’s cute. And in all truth, this year’s holiday feels much less painful already, as a result of the above described circumstance.

 

I am cursing the Gods for even putting that lump on Willow’s neck, whatever it may turn out to be; and I am secretly terrified by the possibility of losing my mother now, at this stage of things in my own Life (or lack, thereof). When I was still very actively suicidal (the state of my being upon starting my blog in the first place), Willow used to guilt-trip me into Life often. She would say things like,

 

“If you love your Mama at all, you won’t leave me in the wake of another lost child…”

or

 “What would happen to me if you killed yourself?”

 

Naturally, being the empath that I am, these statements always struck that chord in me that connects somehow directly to my dead little brother (who committed suicide very young); and the reality of such things would always anchor me once more to Life. I know she wasn’t even necessarily trying to save me from death, but she did. When I think about the prospect of her being gone after all those times of refraining from suicide simply to avoid destroying Willow the rest of the way, as her daughter and then I think about being left behind in the end, after all, well….my abandonment issues flare up and I become semi-manic.

 

Plaster Hand.

I have this plaster hand…
Likened to yours;
Hanging above the kitchen door…
The one we made so long ago…
On Christmas Eve Day, just bored…
I have a poem written…
By your tiny hand;
As tiny as the one that hangs…
Above the kitchen door frame…
It says “Mommy I Love You”…
And the Gods help me…
If when I pass it by, I don’t hear the words…
In a sigh, a whispering…
I keep a tiny, silver jewelry box…
The one you saved up for;
Inscribed across the dusty top …
Is chiseled in, beautifully:
“I Love You Mommy”…
And “Mommy” dies a little more…
I have all these haunting memories…
Of having future plans;
Fulfilling hopes and dreams…
Just you and I surviving…
Getting back up to stand…
I saved these Christmas things…
Yours and mine;
Stored away like a box to mourn…
Every year, when it’s opened again…
And looks the same…
As the years before…
I held on to your special ornaments…
All of them;
Though I never hang them high…
I never get a tree anymore…
I see no reason why…
But I keep these things…
To remind myself…
Of the twinkle lost to my eye…
I held on to so many things…
Of yours;
Desperately trying…
To keep you somehow, near…
Closer at least…
Than wherever you are…
I have this little butterfly wing…
You brought home;
You flew it behind you like a kite…
A colorful ghost that chased you…
Right out of second grade…
I find these notes you wrote…
To me; To Mommy;
They read your apologies…
For spilling toothpaste on the rug…
And I want to come find you wherever you are…
And tell you that rug never mattered to me.

Bashful and Insecure.

Um Bashful...

Insecure.

Kimberly and Me say “Fuck Xmas!”

Scrooged Out Poetresses

Scrooged Out Poetresses

That Way is ‘Up’.

2014-12-02_22.17.44It is December 5 today; 20 days away from the worst day of every year. In twenty days, I will spend another Christmas holiday alone, without anyone considered as family – without anyone who really cares one way or the other about the status of my presence – by 20 days from now, I will again be wishing for death, fast or slow.

All of the days leading up to that day will be filled with bad feelings and experiences, triggers and recollections that make me on edge and cranky as Hell; not a single day between then and today will leave me feeling even semi-complete, as I shop for gifts for the normal people in my life who celebrate the holidays like normal people – pretending.

All of the nights in between Christmas and last night will suck just as badly as the days, no rest for the wicked…or broken-hearted. I will dream of things that will never be and never could’ve been – wake up with that gut-empty feeling and feel afraid for three straight hours with each sunrise – never learning to put my finger on the source of these feelings to stop it, despite my frustrating efforts.

And Christmas Day, itself:

I will sleep as late as I can in an indentation at the edge of my cold bed – between it and the cold wall – I will force my tear-singed eyes to remain closed for as long as I possibly can because I won’t want to open them on that day, I promise. It feels as if the vicious cycle of my existence always gets close to erupting at this time of every year; everyone knows to leave me alone, everyone knows that there’s nothing they can do for me – there’s no solutions to offer or insight that’s worthy – everyone knows.

If I were stupid or lonely enough to expose myself to my extended family on that day, I’d regret it rather quickly; and eventually wind up saying something fucked up to a member of my own family in an over-anxious, depressed and defensive state, before storming out in tears. Been there, wrecked that. I call this entire song and dance “The Circle of Holiday Death” – it happens over and over and over and over. Each time that my heart, mind-state and blood pressure begin to “normalize” after the re-opened wounds, it’s Christmastime once again, and it all starts over.

People will ask me if I am okay until I will begin to respond with anger and irritability; they will not understand. Even my closest friends will avoid me because they simply CAN NOT offer me comfort in any way and they know this (the friends who have not already become totally overwhelmed by my reality and disappeared, altogether, that is).

I will seethe will anger at certain thoughts during this time of year: the people who have created this Living Hell for Boo being able to happily celebrate around a table with their own loved ones, their own precious children; my baby spending the day alone in a locked cage while being told that she’s unimportant and that everything that’s happened to her is her own fault.

IT HURTS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME DERANGED…

And through it all, I MUST keep my grip on composure; for I am NO good to the (Gods willing) older Boo if I end up in prison or dead before she turns 18. I do not plan on abandoning Boo ever again – – no matter how fucking bad it hurts me to follow through with. SHE NEEDS ME; even if she doesn’t know it yet. I have long been aware of the fact that I can’t undo whatever it was that did Boo; I can only build from where we stand, upwards. Our “relationship” is so far gone that I don’t feel as if it’s even possible for us to grow any further apart anymore.

So I guess there’s just one direction to go with it all, when it comes to Boo.