It’s the words I don’t even like typing. My mother is dying. We don’t know for sure how long she has left. She lives two hours away. I’ve already gone to say goodbye.
I am not a good adult. I’ve had anxiety problems my whole life and waiting on a barely-remaining thread to snap put me over the edge. Recently I had a breakdown. I’m sure there’s some official term for it. tldr; I had a really long panic attack. This one gained me a tiny bit of weight loss (Yay?) and some possible drama at work. I’ll find that out tomorrow.
So I’ve created this blog. I want to talk to you, still. But when we talk I have to be positive. It’s so nice to talk to you! Do you remember this silly anecdote? I thought your hair looked great! Do you remember making fun of my hair when I visited? Did you name the panda I brought you?
The whole time, the WHOLE fucking time I was panicking I just wanted to call you. More than anything in the world. I’m so fucking angry with you for dying. This is horseshit. Absolute horseshit. You fucked up our relationship and we haven’t had enough time to fix it all the way.
You are dying BECAUSE of the way you ruined our relationship 9 years ago.
I’m so fucking angry that the last time I saw you, you were strapped to a million machines and really too tired to be aware. I was so surprised to hear later that you remembered me being there.
I’m so scared, Mommy. I’m not ready to lose you yet. I’m so mad that you did this to yourself and I can’t be angry to your face now because that simply would be too fucked up to do and I’m not that kind of person.
I don’t know how to handle any of these feelings.
I still need you to teach me more.
You’re not allowed to leave yet.