Michael wanting to get our of North Dakota to Oregon and HOME!!!
Over and over, I hear from people: Friends, family, acquaintances
how well I am doing, how strong I am, how they do not know how I am holding
this together. When I hear theses accolades of support and love, first off I am
completely melted and humbled by the support given to me and the faith in my
strength people see. Secondly, I think to myself if this is mourning you
"well", I would hate to see badly.
People are
wonderful machines are we not? Our bodies all have the basic mechanics under
the hood, but our floor model options and customization are endless. Some of us
inspire to be sleek, luxury models that show opulence and turn heads. Others
fuel efficient hybrids: peppy with great miles. Some of us are like Ty: a big
ass pick-up truck that looks all intimidating, but is there to help you move
and come on really everyone likes a truck.
Me, I am like a 67
VW bug. Everyone loves my eclectic paint job, my bumper stickers. But get up
close and I am a hot freaking mess. You can see the holes in me. A VW bug classic,
well you may not have heat, the gas fumes may kill you, the wiper does not work
but by God you can drive it into the ground. And the next day after you drive
it into the ground, it will still start again. I am that VW bug, I get up every
morning. I do not want to but I do. The pragmatic part of my being knows the
only thing I can do is mourn my child, I cannot bring him back. So each day I
turn the heart over and start again , there is no choice but to do so.So much
like the rusted out sputtering bug , I putter through the day and folks marvel
at that engineering miracle that somehow keeps me standing.
I guess there is a
way to not mourn well, to keep it locked inside or to play the I wish or what
if game until you win the grand prize of victimization and bitterness. I cannot
play that card, one because my internal owner’s manual cannot go there but more
importantly because of Michael. My son never ever bowed down to the victim
card. He tried to own his demons and his history. He knew they hurt him, they
affected how he looked at life and how he interacted with people. Sometimes he
did it well, sometimes not so much but he learned each time and went forward.
To roll over and die would be an insult to my child and everything he was
working for his life. Too many people discarded my child in his early life. My
job as his mother is to celebrate the life he created when he came home and
embrace his light even though the fire of my grief is searing.
When I talk about
my son, I always think of angel chimes at the holidays. That beloved little
piece of whimsy where you light the candles underneath and the heat and smoke
moves the angles up top and the chimes. That’s his memories and the piece of
him that comes back to me to live on. Light and warmth with the sole purpose
bringing joy. When I share him with you, its because of how amazing he is and
is selfish for me: as his mother I will carry him in my heart and his memories
to my own grave. As his mother, I should have never out lived my child. So no I
carry his legacy so he sees how much I love him still and how proud I am of my child.
I the ultimate hippy car spreading love and light in now the stardust that Michael
is composed of.
What folk’s don’t
see is the inevitable breakdown of the machine. Where I stand beside myself,
kicking the tires. The hardest part of losing him is accepting no new memories,
no continuation of my family, no college graduation, no grandchildren, no
seeing my son as a happy adult. My battery can be jumped by moment s of being present
in the world, with Ty and people I love. But that internal spark that is gone.
Spiritually my son comes through and does pull me from that muddy ditch of despair,
but him in flesh that is never again. And that is so fucking hard, It’s where I
spit and sputter and screech and scream. It’s where I fight life in the most
primal part of me and the deepest part of our reptilian brain. Fight or flight.
Flight from this world is not an option so fight it is.
I rage and I mean
rage. I love my son through my soul, into the marrow of my bones. Bringing him
home reshaped my DNA, it created pathways of great love, I never thought myself
capable of. In those same pathways now where the Oxytocin once flowed, the love
hormone, another substance sometimes flows and boils. It is rage pure white
anger. I want my child, but my want cannot change our reality. I wake up
thinking about him, I fall asleep with him on my mind. I still think I cannot
wait to show this to him or that to him, and then the ball pin hammer re
shatters my heart. I hold my breathe hoping against all hope his car is in the front
of the house when I pull in. I lay in bed and stare down the hall waiting for
him to come in late and come by to see if we are awake, to say goodnight. I go
in his room to just catch his scent and my body at times physically hurts and abandons
me when I just want one more time of him in my arms. I cry numerous times a day,
talk to him constantly.
You all see
strength, I see illusion and a fraud. Maybe one day I will see what you all see
but for now I see a broken woman who really does not know how to put the pieces
back without her child. So thank you all for being gentle in the care and
feeding of this crazy lady
Michael, I will
never leave you and I know you never me. I am trying kiddo, I promise
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