As I try to unravel the grief of my mother, I realize that I’ve been grieving my whole life. My first heartbreak was you…
Maybe that’s a lot to put on someones shoulders, but you were the one I remember taking me on spontaneous movie dates at the age of 4. While Lion King played on a projector, I still remember a stuffed Simba by the window box when I peeked up.
Rushing me down concrete pavement with only one shoe on. Sitting on a Little Caesars countertop while teenage you, let me put toppings on a pizza. I remember things you did with me as a child that I don’t remember experiencing with our mother.
My love and memory of techno and house music will always be linked to you and me dancing to it in our shared room. I loved sharing a room with you because you made me feel safe.
When we moved, everything changed. Our relationship changed and I remember not wanting my sister to be left behind. I remember going up to you while you sat in an empty apartment asking if you were coming with us and you wouldn’t look at me. Our family never talked about the hard things and children weren’t supposed to ask questions.
I remember meticulously searching for Christmas presents for you, desperately hoping it would be something you loved. I don’t remember wanting to impress someone more than I wanted to impress you.
I remember the Birthday card you sent me, a larger than life kitten card. I can’t believe we found it when cleaning out moms things, so many years had passed, so much silence but that was still there as is the Precious Moments doll collecting dust on top of dads dresser.
I remember when you eventually moved to Oregon, you were always angry at mom, but I remember you always being angry with her. I still thought of you as my safe haven for the brief moment you lived with us.
When you moved 2 hours away it never felt the same. You were always angry to see us and you’d never talk to me anymore. It felt like the anger you had towards mom would spread to me. I still wanted so badly to grow up and be you one day.
To be pretty and thin like my sister.
To be confident like my sister.
To be effortless like her.
I moved in with you and your boyfriend when I was 18 to try to pave my own road and I also hoped to have a bond with you the way I remembered how it was when I was little. You were quiet, you’d never talked, at least not about the things that mattered.
I couldn’t ask you for advice. I wasn’t pretty or thin and it seemed that you hated that I wasn’t. It seemed like you hated how I’d cry sometimes and shut down. Most of all it seemed that you hated me for reminding you of my mom.
You said that a lot you know? That I was just like mom as if that was the worst thing I could ever be.
I remember your boyfriend at the time, calling me to tell me that you tried to end it all. He told me to not tell anyone and that you wanted to be left alone. I didn’t know where to go or who to talk to, so I didn’t say anything. Instead I started to spend time at Andrea’s house because that felt more like home to me since you always spent your days locked up in your room.
We never talked about it until 16 years later in moms room after her death. We didn’t talk about how it effected me, but you said it was the first time you had ever felt at peace and it upset you that you were stopped. As much as I can understand wanting to make the pain stop, I couldn’t help but be angry and feel abandoned all over again because I remembered how it felt to know you did that and have no one talk about it. Instead it was the secret I had to carry.
I’ve been grieving for the relationship I wish we had.
For the feeling of home I wish I had with you, now that mom is no longer here.
For the advice, I wish you’d give and the secrets I wish you’d keep.
For the questions I wish you’d ask and the help I’d wish you’d want to give and the reassurance that you’ll never give.
Our family still doesn’t talk about things.
My Lifestate 