September 21, 2016
You’re six months old now, and I hate myself. I feel so guilty for being the
mother you got stuck with here on earth. I only find comfort in the knowledge
that there was life before this one. Did you see me, son? Did you see when I
was alive and free and full of optimism? Did you watch me when I was so full of
passion and creativity I couldn't find enough ways to release it? Did you see me when I was able
to get through days without having to lay down in the middle? Were you proud of
me then?
People spread the rhetoric that “who we are” is “exactly who are children need.” But what if you don’t have who I truly am? This shell of a woman isn’t who you need. You don’t need someone who looks at your always smiling face and only feels the urge to cry. You don’t need a mother who hears nothing but a hollow clunk when she tries to connect with something. You don’t need a mama who goes through the motions during the day. Who, some days, truly thinks that if she lifts her head from her pillow, she will crumble to dust. You don’t need me. And I’m so sorry for that. It takes more effort than I’d like to admit to not walk into traffic and give you the chance to have a mother who can teach you how to love things instead of just endure things.
I know that this isn’t really me. When I pray out to God, I don't recognize myself and so I know that I'm not myself. So I want you to know that I’m trying. I’m fighting to become myself again and I’m
fighting for you to have the kind of mother who is “exactly what you need.”
If I can’t do it, know that I was once so bright that I blinded people. Know
that I was once full of love and hope and faith and imagination. Know that at
the resurrection, my brain will be healed and I will be able to hug you and you
will be able to meet me for the first time.
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