Mother's Day

I did a really good job of not thinking about her yesterday. 

Sounds mean, doesn't it? I didn't want to think about my mom on Mother's Day. It's the antithesis of anything you might find in a Hallmark card. Rather than focusing more attention on my mother, I woke up yesterday morning intent on occupying my brain with anyone or anything else. 

The truth is, Mother's Day makes me angry. I'm not typically ridden with angst regarding my mother's suicide. I've met many other survivors who's anger bubbles within them so fervently that even speaking about the loss of a loved one causes heated outbursts of pain. It's an understandable emotion that deserves validation- I just don't typically carry that anger. 

But Mother's Day provokes me. 

I avoid social media on Mother's Day. If your fortunate enough to still have your mother, you should post your happy photos for all the world to see.

But I can't.

So rather than sit indignantly behind my computer screen scrolling through the flicker of joyous images, I chose not to open my laptop. 

I made a conscious decision not to dine out yesterday. Too much risk involved in being seated beside the table of children showering their mother with gifts, exchanging hugs and embraces. My eyes might stay too long on the grown child that still has the privilege of holding her mother's hand, my jealous stare making her uncomfortable. She wouldn't be able to register the yearn in my gaze, a longing for my mother to have a healthy enough mind to foster a desire to stay with me. 

So to complement my brooding mood, I decided to delve deeper into my melancholy by going to see Ani DiFranco perform live last night with my little sister, Alison. (Ali and I share a passion for Indie female singer/song-writers and Ani is just choleric enough to serve me the indignant cocktail I needed to take the edge off on Mother's Day.)

The lights were dim, the lyrics were boozy, and I wasn't thinking about her. Mission accomplished, right?

Then it happened. The melody picked up and an unfamiliar tune hit my ears. It wasn't enraged. It was forgiving...

Growing up it was just me and my mom
against the world
and all my sympathies were with her
when I was a little girl...

I felt my sister's hand slide against mine and lock fingers. 

I just want to walk
through my life unarmed
to accept and just get by
like my father learned to do

The tears welled in my eyes as I felt my sister's hand tighten. I glanced at her but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking upward, a tight smile pursed on her lips, as if she knew we were playing a cosmic game of Truth or Dare with our mother. We dared not to delve on her that day and as usual, she held all the Aces and was calling our bluff.

I just want you to understand
that I know what all the fighting was for
and I just want you to understand
that I'm not angry anymore
I'm not angry anymore.

Towards the end of the song, I was mouthing along the words, "I'm not angry anymore." All the while my throat burned with heat, choking back the sob. You see, I want so bad to be able to sing a song of acceptance. I yearn to not feel the anger pool inside my heart. But it still puddles there at times. 

I'm not angry anymore.

What a liberating phrase. I woke up today realizing that maybe we all need to be a bit more gentle with ourselves when trying to arrive at a healthy emotional diagnosis. No matter the struggle, if you chose the path of avoidance you will inevitably find yourself being lectured by the very distraction you found intoxicating. 

I'm not there yet, but I'm really trying. Like Ani says: 

we learn like the trees
how to bend
how to sway and say, I think I understand.

Next Mother's Day I hope to be a bit more like the trees, swaying my avoidance towards understanding. 

Because, let's be honest, I spent every minute of yesterday thinking about her anyway.