When I was
19, I had an idea or rather, I created a character. She was a supporting character for the main
character in a story. It was my very
first manuscript and I was obsessed. I
finished it in 3 months, the manuscript that is. But being young and not exactly confident of
my own writing, I tossed it in the proverbial drawer and forgot about it. I started writing when I was 13 and something
magical happened. Seeing words flying
out from fingertips onto paper gave me a sense of release. But writing from the heart can often leave
you exposed, naked, vulnerable. Since I
loved to read and read voraciously, it made sense for me to make up stories.
There was a
period of ten years where I did not write anything. I was busy living my life rather than living
it through the characters in pages of books or in stories I made up. I managed to finish two advance degrees, get
married, and even have children. I tried
many times over that decade to find my way back to my writing. Somehow, the voice rang false and the words
that spewed forth gave the impression of being dishonest. What is a writer if they can’t write? I did attempt to blog about my experience
when I first became a mother. It was a
life changing experience and I realized I had a lot to say. Still, I hadn’t found my voice.
I would,
over the course of the next few years discover the writings of my youth. I learned to marvel at that girl’s talent and
perhaps I was a bit jealous. She was
good. So why couldn’t I do what she had
done. Then I rediscovered Sabrina. I have spent the last five years trying to
tell her story. It was a very powerful
story. But no matter how many times I
wrote her story I always ended up throwing out my work and starting over. I wasn’t yet ready to be honest. I’ve been busy growing into myself. What I did not do is stop and take an honest
inventory of myself. I was busy
changing, but I never once stopped to savor the changes or appreciate the
person I was becoming.
Then on a Friday
afternoon, my cousin told me that my mother had at best a month to live. My world simply fell out from beneath my
feet. I mean, I was still standing on
the floor of the hospital outside my mother’s room but my world was simply
coming undone. If you’ve followed this
blog then you know what happened. She
eventually passed away on August 16, about 2 months and 3 days from the date
when my cousin told me to brace myself for the inevitable. But she did something for me before she left. She ripped off the veil from my eyes until I
stood in the blinding sun staring at the truth I had refused to see. Sabrina lay before me and I finally accepted
why I was unable to tell her story. I
hadn’t been honest. I needed to be
brutally honest. So I took a deep
breath, and started this Journey.
Why am I
writing this? I don’t know. I just need to utter these words and be held accountable
to myself. I can’t stop writing. This is my therapy. This is my drug of choice. This is where I cut my veins and pour out my
pain. My virtual pen is the instrument
of my salvation. I am obsessed. I am possessed. The only way to quiet the voices in my head
is to simply write the words. This is
for me. This is for my muse. My mother.
I had asked
myself if I had set my mother on a pedestal now that she was gone. The honest truth is, my mother infuriated me,
frustrated me, but undeniably, she loved me.
She was far from perfect and she could be thoughtlessly cruel like when
she made me give away a pair of earrings that she never acknowledged I
wanted. But then I was no better because
I simply stood there and gave it away like it didn’t matter. Beneath my clown smile, my heart was
shattering, but I did it for her anyway because it meant so much to her. It didn’t stop me from giving her a piece of
my mind. No, I’m not someone who will
simply take it lying down. I will stand
up and fight for myself. But in the end,
sitting in her hospital bed, the incident with the earrings which had fractured
what was left of our fragile relationship didn’t matter. She knew I didn’t hate her even if in that
moment I swore I did. I knew I shouldn’t
have said those words to her but she let me take them back anyway.
What I miss
is her ability to forgive and love me anyway, flaws and all. I was different from her. I made her feel like I didn’t need her and
she was irrelevant to me. But I think in
the end, she saw just how relevant she was to me. She was ready to go for 2 months and 3 days
but she waited until I was ready to leave me.
In her morphine induced haze on that last night of her life, she still
found the strength to hear my words and give my hand a firm squeeze. It was the touch of the mother who could
simply make me feel better by her mere presence.
After ten
year of trying to figure it out, I finally understood what story I had to
tell. It is a tale of a daughter coming
to grips with the loss of her mother.
The honest truth is painful but what is a tale without honesty? I have lost the one thing in the world which
made any sense in my world. I have lost
my rudder. I have my family but I am
fractured and lost inside. I’m hoping
that somehow, the words I write will help me find my way home.
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