Closure.

          There are some things in this world I will never understand. I will never understand biochemistry or the table of elements, I will never understand the quadratic formula or why E=mC2, I will also never understand war or hatred or voluntary death. Most of all I will never understand the dynamics of my mother’s brain.

          This is a much more weighty blog than usual, and for most it might seem out of character for me. I know that most of you characterize me as a generally cheerful person, and I am. I try to find the beauty in everything, and the light in the typical day…… which is not at all a hard thing to do if you just keep your mind and heart open.

        But before the positivity in my mind was born, there was a really really dim period in my life. A childhood where each day wasn’t marked by the colors, lyrics, and laughs but by torment and misapprehension. But in no way am I writing this to ask for pity and understanding. I write it because if you are taking the time to read it you need to know who I truly am and know that I am truly confused. I truly would like to understand just what it is that makes my mother a disturbed woman, a woman scorned, a woman with so many deep and tragic problems.

      The reason I even bring this up is because today I received a very random phone call. My uncle whom I was close to as a kid, but have lost touch with over the years called me. I missed the phone call but when I checked my messages the only words I heard in the scrambled message were liver failure, and “I thought you would want to know”. I knew this day would come of course because my mother lived inside a whiskey bottle for most of my childhood. I know it’s been eight years since I have seen her, but I doubted that anything had changed. Anyhow I called him back and sure enough she had called him from the hospital to let him know that her liver was indeed failing.

       What struck me at that moment was the fact that he said she called him. Even in this dire of a situation when maybe she thought it could be the last call, she didn’t mention my name she didn’t think to ask my uncle or the nurse to call her one daughter. Even at that moment. I do not understand the hatred. And I know that may seem selfish, I know that I shouldn’t be thinking about my own well being in this situation. But I mean…..she created me. And this could be her dis-creation and she did not think to include the one thing she had given life to a call.

       I know my mother had her own dreams as a beautiful artist to do more than have a child in her early twenties, but had I really turned out to be such a disappointment that she’d rather live her life this way…..alone. Was it really her only option to treat me the way she did growing up, doing the things she did. What makes a person have so much hatred towards someone they created? I will never understand her; I tried for many years too. And sadly enough I do not know what will happen today or tomorrow or if she will die with peace or somehow fight the struggle and live. But I am here, I always have been and it breaks my heart to know that people in this world create and duplicate and recreate lives and their own. And they take one another for granted. What is that about? I know each and every one of us has battled our own wars and no one has had a perfect upbringing. We all face our own hardships, but in moments like this I get silent and numb and it’s hard for me to open up. Unless of course it’s through writing.

         Mainly the only purpose of this blog is for me to find some type of closure. I know many friends think I should go see her, but I think it could do more harm than good. I’ve gotten advice to write her a letter, and believe me I would love to but the few of you that know of my mother, sensibility and rationality have nothing to do with her character. A letter would do nothing but anger her, and my presence would possibly send her into theatrical peevishness. So instead I’ll just say it here…..I forgive you mother. I can’t understand you, and I can’t see you, and I can’t hug you or tell you that I love you because I do not really know who you are. But I forgive you, because with all the pain you have caused to myself and others I am more than sure that the pain you endure mentally and physically every day is much much more raw than anything I can fathom.

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Amor Fati
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