A deep desire has possessed me to write of late, and yet, I’ve been fighting it. I’m not entirely sure why, but it is almost as if I’m afraid to unleash the torrent of thoughts and feelings swirling within the depths of my heart into actual words. So, that said, please forgive the word vomit that is about to come out of my fingers.
Mother’s Day is still probably the hardest day of the year for me. I hate that it is. I don’t want to feel like this annually. I despise my own weakness every time that the sorrow and melancholy takes hold of me.
I sobbed last night, like I haven’t in a long time. Grieving for the child that I never got to hold, who would be six years old now. Glimpses flit through my mind of the little one I never met. My fingers long to brush tangled hair back from my offspring’s sleeping face, to hear the breathy little sounds of contented sleep.
I move on and find myself mourning for the self-imposed loss of my own mother, due to estrangement. Remembering her in the good times, the sane times, the happy times. Wishing for a moment that I could reach out to her, but reminding myself why I had to establish such strong boundaries to begin with. Flashes of memories I wish I could forget, things I’ve tried to bury deep in my mind.
And then come the waves of terror that I’ll never experience motherhood myself and that somehow it is just punishment for some unknown horrible thing that I must be. Am I like my own mother? Am I worse?
Then, I’m flooded with regret for focusing on myself. So many others have it so much worse than I do. How they have suffered makes my own hurt seem insignificant and petty. I know I’m being terribly selfish. I know I should be bigger than this. But I’m not. I’m here, raw and naked and broken inside.
This particular Mother’s Day, my sweet husband and best friend, along with her impishly awesome toddler, did their very best to cheer me up for the whole first part of the day. They were sunshine and wonderful.
But now, I’m here alone, my body gripped by the remains of a nasty stomach bug. It’s quiet, the only sounds in the house being the hum of the fan and A/C, the rustling of my cat and the ominous music of a paused video game in the background. The twists and stabs in my abdomen seem almost appropriate to how my heart feels.
And again, I can’t help feeling ashamed of myself.
My life isn’t that bad. In fact, there are many, many good things happening right now. But on this day, in this moment, it all seems faint and far away. Like the warmth of a fire you can see through a window, when you are outside in the snow… I know it’s real and bright and beautiful, but in this fractured bit of time, I am numb to it.