Letters to Mom 005: Month 2


Hey mom.


Those words still make me cry. I think they will for a while.


I’m in a hotel room again. They don’t make me feel better. I don’t know if it really does any good to get them. It’s quiet. I’m alone. Maybe that counts for something. Maybe it gives me the time I need to rest so I can make it through the week. I spend most of these days, the “hotel days” in bed. Not really sleeping. Sometimes I do. It’s still hard to sleep in general.


I slept curled around your urn the other night. It felt like you were with me. It felt like the one afternoon I can remember in Georgia. I don’t remember how old I was. Young. You told me that we were going to take a nap. We laid down together and I couldn’t sleep so I stayed awake, on my side with your arm wrapped around me, staring out the window listening to the wind blowing through the leaves of the tree outside. I listened to your breathing. I felt your warmth. And as a child I waited for the magic hour where you would let me get up and go do something because I was so bored just laying there.


I wish I could back to then and tell myself to cherish that moment because as I got older we wouldn’t take naps together anymore.


I wish I could tell myself to cherish every moment I had with you because one day there wouldn’t be more. One day it would end.


I cried all night that night mom. I cried so much it hurt and even then I couldn’t stop. I just wanted you to come back even though I knew you were there with me. I want you to be here the way you used to be. The way where I could hug you for real and have you hug me back and tell me that things really will be ok.


It’s bright outside right now. I’m sure if I went out it would be warm. It’s summer. I should be enjoying it. But I don’t want to go outside. I don’t want to be around people and I don’t know where to go. When I’m inside and alone I can cry if I want to. No one is here to be bothered by it to or try to make it better. I’m allowed to just be. Apathetic. Numb. Angry. Sad. Reminiscent. Even happy sometimes. I remember the good times and even though they hurt they make me happy because I was so happy with you.


It’s cold in the hotel room. I keep thinking that I should turn the temperature up but it seems like so much effort. It seems pointless. I keep telling myself the sheet I have wrapped around me is warm enough but I look outside and I know that I really don’t feel alive or warm right now. I’m existing, not living. And I don’t know how to change that.


I want to sit outside under a tree and cry my eyes out. I want to be outside in the sun and warmth. I want to be around nature. I don’t want to miss another summer like I did when I was depressed because Zane was unemployed. I’m tired of missing my season.


I talked to Jason the other day. He was driving home from work and we talked the whole time. I bet it was a lot like when he would call you. I miss him. Even though we don’t really hug or anything I miss being around him. We understand each other’s quiet I guess. We’re so similar. We always were. It doesn’t matter that he’s a half brother. To me he’s the purest family I have next to Jon. He couldn’t be more my brother if he tried.


I’m still waiting and I guess that’s another thing that makes it hard to feel motivated about anything. I’m waiting for this last month of work to end. I’m waiting for Zane to let me know about the apartment. I’m waiting for Allison to let me know when I can get a plane ticket to visit her. I’m waiting. I’m waiting. So it feels like there’s nothing to really do other than sit here.


I don’t know how to occupy my time other than to go to the gym, and that leaves me so sore sometimes because I push myself. I don’t eat well. I don’t sleep well. I don’t drink enough water. So it’s really no surprise I’m not performing well.


There’s a pond across from the hotel. I can see it from my window. I can hear birds. There are trees along the bank covering the grass with shade. There’s a breeze, just like that day we took a nap together. I can see the branches swaying. It looks so nice mom. I wish you were here to go on a walk with me. I wish you were here for me to talk to. I miss your voice so much. I miss your warmth.


I want to be able to do something. I want to not be waiting. I’ve never been good at waiting. Waiting on the plane to see if you were still alive when I got to Vegas. Waiting for your ashes to come back from the funeral home. Waiting to go back to Orlando. Waiting to go back to Vegas to be with Jason.


Always waiting. I don’t want to wait alone. I don’t want to be trapped in my own head, but alone is the only time I can truly think and process. The only time that I can figure out what MY thoughts are rather than all of the noise around me. And my thoughts hurt. And so I find myself crying, or missing you, writing to you. I find myself sad and staying inside where I leave it too cold rather than going outside and trying to live and heal.


My goal today, mom. The one thing I’m going to do today is go outside and sit under that tree. I’m going to do it for you. For me. Because I said I would be strong and that I wouldn’t fall to pieces.


Today is two months without you, and maybe that’s why going outside seems like such an impossible task right now. But I’m going to do it. I’m going to sit outside and get sunlight and fresh air even if it’s only for five minutes. I said I wouldn’t waste my days. That I would live life to the fullest. That I wouldn’t stay in bed. I said I would shower and eat at least one meal every day. I said I would take care of myself and that I would keep going.


You wanted me to be happy in life and I’m trying so hard, mom. I really am. But right now the best I can do is survive. I can’t be happy yet. Not like I was.


So I guess I need to go for now so I can shower and get dressed and go sit under my tree. I’m most likely going to cry and I’m sorry for that, but I promise that I’ll make it through today. I love you, mom. I miss you.


One thought on “Letters to Mom 005: Month 2

  1. I’ve been so absent from WordPress the past few months, other than the occasional post, and I realized something: I’ve missed reading your blog! So on this leisurely Saturday, I decided to take a little time to go back to where I left off and catch up on what you’ve written.

    And wow…

    I cannot imagine– literally cannot imagine– how excruciatingly difficult these past few months of your life must have been. You have been through so much, and there is still so much to feel through. The loss of a mom is not something that just clears up and heals quickly… I think those sorts of things actually cause a lot of pain before they even begin to slowly heal.

    You are such a warrior. Everyone has their battles, and their tough periods of life, but damn girl– you are incredible for working through all of this with such a lack of steady support. Never forget that– even if you spend nights crying uncontrollably, curled around your mother’s urn, you are strong. It’s actually really encouraging to me to read about how you’ve been fighting through all of this. It makes me feel so much more equipped to handle tough situations when they come my way!

    And, of course, know this: I know we only know each other through WordPress but we’ve both been through some shit at various points. And sometimes the best thing to do when you’re going through shit is to talk with someone else who knows, at least a smidge, what that’s like. So I’m here if you ever need an extra ear or even someone to ramble to about the awesomeness of yoga socks and such (I’ve been doing yoga more regularly and it is wonderful!!). 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

Greetings traveler! Leave your tidings here.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s