Saying Goodbye.

    I wake up everyday motivated to be the best wife and mother I can be. Better than the one I was the night before. In competition with no one but the person I was yesterday. I struggle with depression, and I often sit up late at night praying it just goes away. I have so many moments in my life that have brought me here, to this keyboard, spilling stories of pain and resentment on a quest to be better. To do better. To grow better. To love better, and to be a person who is able to be loved. My story starts much younger than 12, however as I sit here a 33 year old women I know losing my grandma is the moment that changed me forever. Growing up with my sister and mom I never felt the love my mom showed my sister. I felt her disconnect towards me, and in return my little sisters disconnect as well. My grandma was my safe place. After she died there were no more hugs, no more kisses, no more “how was school?”. The life with her was gone. The love was gone. The only person in the world that made me feel wanted, was gone. This is my healing journey. This is the beginning of a really long story. 

           Let’s take some steps back. Let me explain the basics. The same old story of a fatherless daughter, wanting so badly to be wanted by him. Just as his other children were.. A drug addicted mother, and an aunt who once was like a mother to me. Growing up I don’t have many memories. Some of my favorites though are being at an old amusement park 20 minutes from our hometown. Riding a large white, wooden, run down roller coaster that clicked loudly as you chugged along. I’d yell “ I love you” to my grandma who was sunbathing in our picnic area as we rode by. She would wave every time with a beautiful smile on her face. Man, I miss that smile. Memories of my aunt who loved to craft and puzzle whipping through the house cleaning an already clean home. A mom who made sure  to take us to all the free events in the town, because we didn’t have money. My first crush in the 3rd grade, and my best friend and cousin, Melanie. Those were the simple times in life. The times I try to hold on too, but the bad memories do over power them most times. Exactly why this has begun. I wanna get it all out on paper so that it finally escapes me. 

        Ahhh, The bad memories. Now although you can’t have favorite bad memories, you can have some that are so harrowing that it sticks with you like a bad tattoo on a drunk, teen night. One very painful one for me is my grandma’s last day of life. For weeks she laid in the hospital. Tubes running down her throat. A bucket holding all the black mucus from her cigarette riddled lungs. I stayed everynight in that ICU waiting area, sleeping across the chairs and waking up in fear to the sound of a flat line announcement, praying it wasn’t her. I visited every visitation hour I was allowed. I counted the days, replaying over again her saying on her birthday, February 16th, “I won’t make it another 6 months”. We were in August… August. My mom and aunt begged me to leave and go enjoy my summer vacation a bit with my friends, so I gave in and went to the local community center with my friends to swim. Approximately a 5 minute walk to the hospital. For the first time in weeks I was having fun, splashing in the pool and goofing with my friends. It was like nothing was wrong. Until pool check. The noise of the whistles erupted inside of me like a warning siren. The guilt instantly consumed me and all I knew to do was run. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. I just ran to the hospital. To her.

            When I reached her room my mom was standing with her, as well as my great aunt Zelma. They were crying, she was disoriented. She didn’t know my name. The doctors and my mom rushed me out the room. I waited in tears by myself in that waiting room just wishing for someone to tell me everything was okay. Sitting there still wet in my swim clothes, cold from the hospital air…. I heard the flat line alarm. It was the same as every other time, except this time I knew. I knew I would never hear her voice again, or see her smile. I knew I would never get to wiggle beside her in her chocolate colored recliner meant for 1, and watch tv until I fell asleep. I’d have to miss the days of watching her wrap her silver hair in those pretty pink curlers even though she never had anywhere to go. It was all gone. I waited out there in that waiting room for what felt like hours, alone and defeated. August 16th, exactly 6 months later. She knew. I remember being so resentful towards my mom for not coming out to console me. Only to realize later in life that she was there for her last breath, in that ICU room heartbroken herself. At 12 I just couldn’t understand this.

        They always say when the grandparents pass the family dynamic changes. I couldn’t agree with this more. Only weeks after her death my mom was back to her old ways disappearing for days at a time on a crack cocaine binge. Leaving me with my baby sister. She sold everything in the house, until the house itself was gone too. We moved into a tiny 1 bedroom apartment. Just a few blocks from the rundown, trap house my mom would disappear too. My anger for her grew. The resentment festered.  All I had was my aunt until I didn’t. I looked up to her so much. I wanted to be just like her one day. People would joke that we looked more alike than her daughter and her did. That she was secretly my mom instead. I loved that rumor. I embraced it so much. She was my role model. Then she met a man who she would soon marry, and the woman I thought loved me like I was her daughter didn’t want me anymore. Now at the ripe old age of 33 I understand how difficult I had to have been to love. I was mean, hurt, angry.  I lost my grandma, my mom, my aunt, and my best friend all in one death. To me I was now alone.