When someone you love dies, there’s always a hole that’s left behind in their spot. Over the years, I’ve lost many dear friends and a handful of relatives.
But nothing compares to the death of a mother.
Today makes exactly one month since my mom died and the wound feels just as fresh.
One of the worst parts for me is that our relationship was strained. Unfortunately, I was abused as a child. Because of this, as a teenager, I became a cutter. And tried to kill myself several times. I figured that it would be best for everyone. Since no one loved me, no one would miss me.
Then, as a young adult, I distanced myself from most of my family. It was the only way for me to heal from the pain of everything that I had been through. As an adult, I started sifting through my memories, trying to piece together the shattered and forgotten parts of myself.
Unfortunately, it was only after my mom died that I realized that she was also a victim of my father’s abuse.
And that I had punished her because of him.
I always thought that he would die first. We all did. And I thought that when that happened, that I would find common ground with my mom. That we would move past our shared pains and experiences. That I would be able to forgive her for sitting by, doing nothing, while my father exploded on me time and again.
But I was wrong.
And now, now I’m mad. I’m pissed. I’ll never get the opportunity to let my mom know that I forgive her. I’ll never get to tell her that no matter how far away I was, she was always on my mind. Every success, every failure, every decision. She was there. Even when she wasn’t. I’ll never get to have the relationship that I’d always hoped we’d have when my dad died.
Because it’s too late. I let time get away from me. I let pride betray me. I let pain rule me.
I don’t know if God is real or if reincarnation is or anything like that. But I do hope that my mom somehow knows how I feel and if she doesn’t, maybe one day, I’ll get to tell her.
It’s raining today. It feels appropriate.