Dear Mom - 2 Years Later

Dear Mom, 

It’s your death anniversary.  It feels so surreal to say you’ve been gone for two years.  This isn’t the first time in life I’ve had to navigate your absence.  There was my early youth when we either got the violent version of you or the neglectful version, with sprinkles of a present, attentive mother thrown in.  I learned to step up and fill in the spaces you and dad left behind so my brother always knew he would have someone he could count on.  He still calls me when his world starts to crumble.  I hope that makes you happy on the other side to know that Bud is well cared for.  

Then you disappeared completely.  But not quite. 

We can blame Dad, the American war on Black women who need support but instead are given jail cells, or we could blame your demons.  I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy over the last two years, and I know the answer lies in the center of that Venn diagram of your trauma and neglect. And yet… there is still that part of me, that sad, neglected little girl who learned to dance with her own demons, that often finds herself asking in the dark corners where she keeps her pain, “Why wasn’t loving me enough?”.  

I know…  I know… it wasn’t about me.  It seems almost childish to still entertain those feelings, and yet there they are tattooed upon my flesh.  A wound I try too hard to keep hidden, and yet it spills out everywhere in the ways that I overgive, overcommit, and engage in self-martydom like it’s a kink, even though it never brings me joy; only more self-hatred and self-loathing punctuated by the reality that I’ll never be able to ask you why I wasn’t enough.  Why wasn’t loving me and my brother enough to break through your demons?  My therapist helped me realize I’ve been seeking parents like me instead of accepting the parents I have… and had. While yes, I took on motherhood like a challenge, something I had to win.  I had to outdo everyone so I could feel worthy of the title of mother.  Not everyone has that painfully unhealthy approach to parenthood, and it’s unrealistic to hold others to the same level of trauma performance that I force myself to endure.  Especially when the process of doing the most to quiet the sad girl within causes you to lose every bit of yourself or who you thought you would be. 

I was so desperate to not be you, I became the super mom who hides her tears, doubts, and fears behind outlandish holiday decor and freshly baked bread.  I internalized every cruel thing that was ever said to me and did my best to repackage it as perfection.  I was so desperate for love that I drank from poisoned goblets while seated at tables with enemies.  It’s been two years, and losing you broke something inside of me.  The part of me that was choking under the weight of expectation and neglect.  I’m putting myself back together.  I think this will be something I’m doing for the rest of my life.  Moving and reshaping the puzzle pieces of who I am, so I can step back before I take my final breath, gaze upon the full picture, and feel joy when I look at the life I lived.  

But the time for gazing is well into the future.  In the now, I still grieve.  I still wonder.  I still struggle with the person I crafted to survive a world that doesn’t want me to thrive and the person I am working to become, who understands that a life well-lived means doing more than merely surviving.  While losing and having to grieve you for a third and final time in my life has been immensely devastating, I want to say thank you on this anniversary.  In your passing, I found the freedom to stop being scared.  To stop playing it safe.  The freedom to finally embrace and hold every ounce of me instead of waiting for someone else to see me as worthy.  I’m worthy now simply because I say so.  

Thank you for that, Mom. Rest well.  

Love, 

Rayven

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