Dear Mom,
The craziest thing happened right
before Thanksgiving. You died. I was down in Dallas because Dad was
having surgery – he broke his wrist tripping over dog. I was wanted to be
there for his surgery and to help out afterward. You know how Dad is when he’s
stressed and in pain.
ANYWAY, on Tuesday, November 24th Dad came and knocked on my door,
opened it, and said “Wake up. Your mother died”. I thought to
myself “oh my god, it happened”, I grabbed my blanket and followed Dad into his
room. He had (my sister) on the phone and she was crying
hysterically. I’ve never heard her cry like that – as a matter of fact I
can’t remember the last time I saw or heard her cry prior to that morning.
I guess the police had banged on her door between 4am and 5am to notify
her.
I sat cross-legged on the bed
trying to find reality and halfway wondering if I was still dreaming. I
wasn’t surprised. I’d been mentally preparing myself for your death for
about a year. It was right about this time last year when it became quite
clear you would end up dying suddenly – most likely in your apartment as the
result of alcohol or pills. And it seems like that was exactly what
happened – although we don’t know yet. The West Fargo PD seems to be
taking their sweet time with the toxicology results.
I have so much more to tell you
about the day and the week you died, but that's not really the point of this
letter. I should probably get back on track.
I have no idea what I’m doing,
Mom. I’m so afraid that I’m going to end up alone. I still feel
completely unlovable. It’s shaping up to be a long, lonely life.
I’m completely terrified. It scares me so bad that you struggled forever
with addiction and depression and that my life might turn out exactly the same.
I’ve been looking for you all
over. I went and sat in the recital hall at Concordia College hoping
you’d find me there. I’ve been playing Christmas songs on the piano
hoping you’ll sit and listen. I’ve been staring at your elephant… we need
to have a conversation about elephants, Mom. But that’s for later.
(my half sister and brother) have both had really powerful dreams about you in
the last couple of nights. (my half sister) texted me in the middle of
the night last night telling me you’d just told her that you can’t see us, but
that you CAN hear us. Maybe you’re listening now.
In inpatient treatment I was
assigned to write a letter to you that was not to be delivered. The next
day, we were assigned to write the letter we wished we would receive from our
mothers. I considered talking with you about the letters at some
point. The right time never came.
A lot of it sounds petty now.
It just doesn’t matter. And I’m glad the “right time” to talk to you
about the letters never came. I’ve been reading a lot of the things you
wrote in journals and as assignments for your treatment program. To me,
it seems like you got stuck really early in life. As far as I can tell it
was when you were about 12. You never stopped being angry at your folks
for things they said and did and those stories and feelings show up over and
over in your writing. I can’t help but wonder if you’d still be alive
right now if you’d been able to process and work through some of that. I
don’t want to be stuck. I don’t want any of the things I wrote about to
hold me down or hold me back in life or in my recovery. Thank you for
bringing it to my attention.
I’ve been asked a couple of times
what I would say to you now if I could say one last thing. My answer has
been the same: “I’d tell her I wished she’d tried harder.” It’s so
true. Reading through all of your stuff – every unfinished assignment,
unfinished letter, unfinished thought makes my stomach turn. What would
have happened if you had finished those?
I have a ton of unanswered
questions and I’m really searching. I’m looking at what you wrote, trying
to put myself in your shoes, waiting for results from the police, looking
through your mail, reading your books… I know many of my questions will never
be answered. I can spend life wondering, being angry, being hurt but I
don’t want to. One thing I know for sure is that you’re at peace now and
I’m glad for that.
Talk to you soon.
Love,
Me
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