I tried really hard – really hard – to not be a total byatch this weekend, and I think I failed miserably overall. I snapped at Rob and at Emily for stupid reasons; I had an attitude the size of a small country and no matter how hard or what I tried, it wouldn’t totally go away. I tried deep breathing, I tried to remember WHY I was being so snappy and I tried to image what my mom would say if I had an attitude with her (there was cursing involved and I think she would have said something like ‘get a clue’ or ‘hello!!’), I even tried to distract myself with other things like going for a walk and feeding ducks in the yard. But nothing worked, it was like I was on auto-pilot and had forgotten the code to get back into control.
As I sat with Emily at bedtime last night, I cried. I cried in the dark, quietly so she couldn’t hear me. I cried because I’m just that sad, still. I miss my mom and I missed her this weekend. She should have been sitting on the couch between my sister and my dad, watching as Emily “ooooo”ed over the surprise gifts she got for her birthday. She should have been given a party hat as Emily passed them out and decided what color everyone should have (I think my mom would have gotten purple). She should have been there to see how happy she was to see everyone; she should have heard her say “baba” to my dad when she tried to get his attention. But she wasn’t there, or at least it didn’t feel like she was; no amount of wishing will bring her back in the physical form, I wish she could have shown up in whatever form she’s in now, though. I’ve read accounts and I’ve seen the stories on TV – when someone in spirit is near you, you feel cold and you get goose bumps. There were no bumps of the goose variety yesterday; there never are. Almost six months and nothing. I thought she would be with my daughter on her birthday, and maybe she was, but she wasn’t with me that day and she wasn’t with us this weekend – and if she was, I didn’t know it.
Sometimes I do truly feel like she hates me, or at least doesn’t care about me now that she’s gone. And I’ve said it before – it’s one thing to feel that way when your mother is alive, it’s a whole other thing when she’s dead. In death, she cares even less about me – at least that’s how it feels; she had stopped speaking to me before she died, she was mad at me, and I’m pretty sure she blames me for her going into the hospital so she most likely doesn’t want to be around me. I get that, if she would be with anyone it would be my dad, but still. I thought she would somehow be around for my birthday, for my daughter’s birthday. But nothing. I miss her more than I thought I would, more than I thought I could, and it doesn’t seem to matter. No amount of crying or bitchiness or snappishness changes the fact that she’s gone and she’s not coming back in any way, shape or form apparently. I thought that her threat of haunting us would have come to fruition by now, but now it just feels like a bunch of smoke blown up my behind for all those years. All I hope for, every day, is that where ever she is she is happy and healthy and with people that she loves. Everyone deserves that, even her and even if she does hate me. I just want her to be happy.
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