Very few experiences in
my life have been as painful as my mother’s death, over five years ago. In
fact, to this day, I’d argue it has cemented itself as perhaps THE most anguishing of them all.
And though she may be gone, I very much remain the same mama’s boy I was when
she was alive. Not to say that we didn’t have our disagreements (many of which
were major), or that we didn’t have any serious rough patches, because those
were plenty, it’s just that I remember reaching a point in my adolescence (particularly
when I almost committed suicide and she was away in Michigan with my
Grandmother helping care for my Aunt who was first diagnosed with cancer) when
I realized how irreplaceable she is, and just how much I really need her. That
pivotal point back in 2009 was to refine my abysmal perspective for good. And I
couldn’t be happier looking back knowing that it had to happen.
You see, my mother was
not without her flaws, faults, and imperfections. But please understand when I
say: she was a fucking saint. Yes. I said it. And I meant it. Not only that, but she had what appeared to me as impenetrable
strength, coupled with a heart that truly knew no bounds. Her love and devotion
were works of art, and her loyalty and dedication were mere marvels. Her smile and
laughter provided so much hope in even my most despondent moments. Her hugs and
kisses were literal medicine.
I can’t quite iterate
just how much she hurt me when she died; how taking ALL of that away from me
and the family in a matter of months, leading up to the very seconds right
before she inspired her last breath, shattered something within me that I don’t
believe I’ll ever be able to piece back together. Even a whole five years
later, I can’t believe just how I ever got this far knowing that I can’t call
her anymore for council, life advice, or to simply hear her talk. And it is
such an ongoing process, learning how to live with the fact and [it] NOT "getting
easier with time," as too many say. Because that’s just it–It doesn’t really
get easier. At all. You just have to learn to adjust.
I used to dream about her
almost every night when she first died. Now, I’m lucky if I see her
sporadically. I knew back then that there were places she had to go that we as
a family would never be able to understand or answer until perhaps we ourselves
pass away. And it transformed so much of my own life and understanding of it
that from that point on I knew I would never be the same again. Some of the
deepest and most profound truths found their ways into the cracks and voids of
my being she left when that fateful day came.
And as with most
everything else, I found that writing about her makes everything a bit more feasible
to digest. Through my mother’s death, I was able to exorcise a lot of the
emotions that really drowned out much of the light within me, because most of all,
it killed much of that same hope her smile and laughter used to give me.
Through writing, I was able to share with her and the powers that be my
cognitive processes, siphoning every earthly feeling I could through the ends
of my pen in an effort to heal so much of what has been broken. I didn’t even
know I could harbor such copious amounts of hurt.
I’ve since become a much
better writer because of her. It has inspired some of my darkest work: things I
would never give myself the opportunity to even come close to acknowledging
impertinent to her demise, revolutionized ways of thinking and seeing the
world, but ultimately, a more grounded and truer, more appreciated way of
loving those around me. Because who knows what the future holds? I never would
have imagined as a child that I would have lost my mother at such a young age.
But life comes at you fast. And as it goes, she taught me and my family that
even in death, the ties that bind can never be broken, even in spite of the
fact. That even though her death came so early, there’s STILL so much life left
to live, whether here on this earth as we currently are or somewhere else out
into a realm we’ve only yet to truly ever know, where she is. And until that day comes, I suppose I can rest easy knowing
that.
Until that day comes, I
can live the rest of my life understanding and honoring it, above all else.
Reki*
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