I have clung very tightly to the death of my mother. When she died in 2004, I was still completely bound to her. I had tried, as teenagers do, to find my own identity by pulling away
and doing things she didn't want me to. But I never could get very far
from her and, when I did, I tried to win her approval anyway.
It wasn't until 2012 that I realized I was still waiting for her to come back. Even now, I have not completely comprehended that she won't. I have been told, however, that by letting go of the loss, sometimes we are able to get closer to the memory of our loved ones. I am still not sure I can believe that, either, but the alternative inserts grief and pain into everything I do. Anything that might seem like moving on feels like a betrayal: falling in love, pursuing a graduate degree, trying to be healthy. If I move on and find joy, I've reasoned, my mom might think I don't need her anymore. How can she come back if I don't leave room for her to fill? If I just show her that I can't move on with my life without her, she can't possibly leave me here to fend for myself. See 'cause the problem is that she was human after all. And after surviving cancer for 7 years and, you know, being my mom, she seemed completely invincible. Infallible. Immortal.
When the anniversary of her death comes around, I am typically overwhelmed by weakness and become reclusive. But this year feels different. The all-consuming, unjust, fiery pain won't come. The heaving, the bawling, the weeping, the trembling, I haven't seen any of it. The empty soreness isn't there. The reluctant shedding of armor has not revealed a soft, vulnerable exterior. It was sunny today and I wanted to spend time outside. I went to a bar, risking conversation with a stranger. I mean, I'm a little skittish--I jumped when the bartender handed back my change--but, quite honestly, I feel really good today.
I've been working on a project around my experience of my mom's death. One part, the part I promised two years ago, is devastating. I'm still not sure what to do with it.
The rest is music. This is a youtube mixed tape and then a couple songs "performed" by me. The first I wrote in a torrent of tears on what should have been my mom's 54th birthday and quick recorded despite fumbling fingers and weak voice. The second is a cover of Nina Nastasia's "Rosemary" (which has none of the regular excuses for issues of technicality).
I decided to cover it a week or so ago and have since been singing it over and over. Everywhere. All the time. I chose it mostly for the lyrics -- they feel so close to where I am now -- but when I stopped to reflect on the lyrics again after singing it for several days, I erupted in tears.
The song had become an incantation. A request to forget, a fear of what that might mean, a request to move on, and the fear of renewed loss. And on the other side of countless repetitions, it felt as though I wished the song into being.
So here I am, on the 11th October 16th without my mom. No sense of justice or indignation or helplessness can undo what has been done. Her memory fades at times but the tight grasp I have to keep her from slipping away adds pain to joyous memories and keeps me from living the hopeful, courageous life she raised me to lead.
So I'm letting go (or trying to, anyway). And I just have to hope that this doesn't mean I lose her all together. The pain is better than nothing but maybe there's something better than pain.
In Grief Mixed Tape +
It wasn't until 2012 that I realized I was still waiting for her to come back. Even now, I have not completely comprehended that she won't. I have been told, however, that by letting go of the loss, sometimes we are able to get closer to the memory of our loved ones. I am still not sure I can believe that, either, but the alternative inserts grief and pain into everything I do. Anything that might seem like moving on feels like a betrayal: falling in love, pursuing a graduate degree, trying to be healthy. If I move on and find joy, I've reasoned, my mom might think I don't need her anymore. How can she come back if I don't leave room for her to fill? If I just show her that I can't move on with my life without her, she can't possibly leave me here to fend for myself. See 'cause the problem is that she was human after all. And after surviving cancer for 7 years and, you know, being my mom, she seemed completely invincible. Infallible. Immortal.
When the anniversary of her death comes around, I am typically overwhelmed by weakness and become reclusive. But this year feels different. The all-consuming, unjust, fiery pain won't come. The heaving, the bawling, the weeping, the trembling, I haven't seen any of it. The empty soreness isn't there. The reluctant shedding of armor has not revealed a soft, vulnerable exterior. It was sunny today and I wanted to spend time outside. I went to a bar, risking conversation with a stranger. I mean, I'm a little skittish--I jumped when the bartender handed back my change--but, quite honestly, I feel really good today.
I've been working on a project around my experience of my mom's death. One part, the part I promised two years ago, is devastating. I'm still not sure what to do with it.
The rest is music. This is a youtube mixed tape and then a couple songs "performed" by me. The first I wrote in a torrent of tears on what should have been my mom's 54th birthday and quick recorded despite fumbling fingers and weak voice. The second is a cover of Nina Nastasia's "Rosemary" (which has none of the regular excuses for issues of technicality).
I decided to cover it a week or so ago and have since been singing it over and over. Everywhere. All the time. I chose it mostly for the lyrics -- they feel so close to where I am now -- but when I stopped to reflect on the lyrics again after singing it for several days, I erupted in tears.
The song had become an incantation. A request to forget, a fear of what that might mean, a request to move on, and the fear of renewed loss. And on the other side of countless repetitions, it felt as though I wished the song into being.
So here I am, on the 11th October 16th without my mom. No sense of justice or indignation or helplessness can undo what has been done. Her memory fades at times but the tight grasp I have to keep her from slipping away adds pain to joyous memories and keeps me from living the hopeful, courageous life she raised me to lead.
So I'm letting go (or trying to, anyway). And I just have to hope that this doesn't mean I lose her all together. The pain is better than nothing but maybe there's something better than pain.
In Grief Mixed Tape +
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