Dear mom
Dear mom.
Two years and I still can't shake the feeling that it all went wrong. It started the day you went into the hospital, and I don't think it's ever stopped. One thing after the other, and yes I know that's life, but there has to at least be a pause. A breather. Something.
Two years and I still can't come to terms with the choices that had to be made, not a single one of them. I don't know how to reconcile myself with the person who made those choices. And if I can't do that... how can I keep being... anything that even resembles who I used to be?
Two years and I don't know how to stop hating myself.
I still want to hear your voice on my birthday. I still want to meet you for coffee. I still want... I still want. Don't we ever stop wanting, mom? It seems like the older we get, the more content we should be. But I can't seem to stop wanting.
I used to think that if I took it one step at a time, I'd get somewhere. But I haven't gotten anywhere.
I miss your voice, and the smell of your perfume. I miss steak dinners, and shopping sprees. I miss Christmas and Easter and I miss that one wonderful Thanksgiving.
I don't know how to stop missing you, how to stop regretting all of it, long enough to live anymore. I don't know how to let go of any of it. I don't.
It's been two year years. Some things should have stopped hurting. It shouldn't burn and bleed the way it all does.
I want to be done, but how can I be when I being done would mean letting go of you.
It's so stupid, to be twenty-four and still want my mommy. But I so desperately still do.
All that can be said, in the end, is that I still love you. I still miss you.
....
Manda
Two years and I still can't shake the feeling that it all went wrong. It started the day you went into the hospital, and I don't think it's ever stopped. One thing after the other, and yes I know that's life, but there has to at least be a pause. A breather. Something.
Two years and I still can't come to terms with the choices that had to be made, not a single one of them. I don't know how to reconcile myself with the person who made those choices. And if I can't do that... how can I keep being... anything that even resembles who I used to be?
Two years and I don't know how to stop hating myself.
I still want to hear your voice on my birthday. I still want to meet you for coffee. I still want... I still want. Don't we ever stop wanting, mom? It seems like the older we get, the more content we should be. But I can't seem to stop wanting.
I used to think that if I took it one step at a time, I'd get somewhere. But I haven't gotten anywhere.
I miss your voice, and the smell of your perfume. I miss steak dinners, and shopping sprees. I miss Christmas and Easter and I miss that one wonderful Thanksgiving.
I don't know how to stop missing you, how to stop regretting all of it, long enough to live anymore. I don't know how to let go of any of it. I don't.
It's been two year years. Some things should have stopped hurting. It shouldn't burn and bleed the way it all does.
I want to be done, but how can I be when I being done would mean letting go of you.
It's so stupid, to be twenty-four and still want my mommy. But I so desperately still do.
All that can be said, in the end, is that I still love you. I still miss you.
....
Manda