This Is Me Maria

The worst part about family is how you can see parts of them in yourself.

My arms look like my mom’s arms. My feet look like my mom’s feet. My hands are big like my dad’s. My nose is big like my mom’s.

I have an unhealthy obsession with jewelry, like my grandma. Currently my house is unfinished and messy like hers too. I am not punctual, like my dad. I have a temper that bares the rage the boils inside me, like my mom.

My kids are a lot like me. Cody is insecure like me. You can tell when he talks. Madison looks just like me. (Her toes look like my sister’s funny shaped toes that I used to make fun of.)

They are like Chris too. Cody looks just like him. Madison has his long fingers. They both have his big, brown, puppy dog eyes and long lashes.

There some strange things I’ve inherited that I love though.

I am a night owl. While not very useful, I love the dark and the night.

I love the rain, trees, and clouds of the Seattle area.

I am conscious of the environment.

The moral glasses I look through are very  black and white. They are few if any areas of grey.

There are so many pieces of me that come from my parents and my upbringing. I’ve been trying to sift those out of the emotional clutter. The better I know myself, I think perhaps the better I can raise my littles to be the people I think they should be.

It is funny what you learn about yourself when someone (like a therapist) just sits and actually listens to you talk.

Maybe it is my depressive, psychotic state but for some reason I feel like now is a good time to explore how I feel about my mom her.

Of all the things we’ve covered so far in therapy, the one thing that made me cry was her. It was so ridiculous. I like distraction from life, grieving is a good distraction. Shall we?

Her ashes are here in my house. I don’t like to remember that. They are in my dog’s bedroom in a plastic bag. Well the velvet bag that holds the wooden box that holds the Ziploc bag of ashes (I looked when I was a kid) is in the plastic grocery bag. God that is so horrible. I should box it up and mail it to her family.

Every photograph my family ever took are here in my house in photo boxes. This makes me so unbelievably angry. We made so many memories and no one even cares anymore.

Someone’s new wife has the emotional maturity of a 10 year old and can’t stand to have photos of someone’s previous life anywhere in their house. Not one. single. photograph.

I don’t want the responsibility of carrying on her memory or the memories of our family. He was supposed to do that. It is his job! I don’t want to be responsible for this!

I read that kids need to know where they came from, so I have to come to grips with all of this and be able to communicate information about my family with a positive spin. So far both children are very interested in how she died. They understand that I don’t have a mother and that she is dead. Much to my dismay they ask a lot of questions about her.

If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to answer questions. So far I’ve used inner hatred towards her for leaving to block out whatever real vulnerable emotions I might have. Probably not the healthiest idea.

I was 11 and she left. This feels horrible. The empty gaping whole people leave when they die, I don’t feel that anymore. I guess this is the crap that comes after that.

Late nights in the city.

Books.

Coffee.

Surrounded by other friendly night owls.

Shiny pages, organized shelves, music.

Do you remember?

Racing to the city limits.

Full moons.

Winding roads.

Fresh air.

Silence.

Do you remember?

Please don’t forget.