A week ago today, I lost my mom. The few days before it happened and the week since have been indescribably difficult. It’s like getting repeatedly punched in the face by emotions in some sort of street brawl. The emotions will pummel you all at once at first, just hitting and kicking any vulnerable spot they can until you’re curled over, past any ability to defend yourself. Then, suddenly, they disperse and you’re left there with the ache of your injuries and no will to keep going.
It’ll let up then, so you can catch your breath, maybe get back on your feet for a moment. You might try a smile, a laugh, you might forget for a moment. But the reality is always there, lying in wait to slink up beside you and punch you or give your heart a good shredding. It’s in every picture, in every offhand thought that doesn’t know yet. It’s in the faces of the people around you who are feeling the same loss, and in your inability to comfort them. It’s in someone saying “Oh, my mom’s going to be here today,” or “Don’t forget to hug your mom for mother’s day!”
It’s ready to just keep hurting you, until you feel like an exhausted shell of a person. You’re not you. You’re not anyone. You’re just what’s here right now.
Right now, I’m trying to wade through all the sadness and the immense, shitty guilt I still feel. Anyone who knows me knows that my mother and I had a very tumultuous relationship. It could often be very toxic, and for my own mental health I had to emotionally keep her at arm’s length while I figured out what ground was the safest for coexistence. I grew up with things I didn’t know were abnormal until later in life, and adjusting my worldview became a primary goal as I left my 20s. The guilt comes from that emotional severance, and though I know objectively that I did what I had to do to survive, that guilt is extremely stubborn in its existence.
Going forward, I’ll just have to adhere to the old adage: Take it one day at a time. I’ll do what I have to do to make it through every day, to crawl into every tomorrow. I don’t know that I can write a beautiful, touching memorial piece for my mom. The best I can do right now is just to keep going.
Where The Hell Did I Put My... 
Just keep doing what you need to do Kirsten. You don’t have to write that she was your hero, or make things up… but you are her daughter and no matter what… she has always loved you unconditionally even when I’m sure her words said otherwise. When my grandpa passed… his step son who lived with him at the time said he wouldn’t say false things about him on how he was such a kind person… but rather… that he did love him even with all the anger my grandpa had inside. That he never understood where the anger came from or how they survived his last years as he struggled with some dimentia… but he did mention the things my grandpa did teach him, the good days that were in memory and that even though it was really rough, he still loved him.
We understood… has he talked about what an loving patient man my grandpa was… we would’ve really questioned whether he was talking about him or not. Hang in there and speak what your heart tells you.
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