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When you find Grandpoppy, please tell him what an expert I am at his single eyebrow raise, and that every single time I do it, I think of him.

I love you, Mommy. I hope I get to talk to you tomorrow.

This is a post to test if my blog can correctly post to twitter. Let’s see…

Today my job was threatened. I didn’t take it well. Then I almost quit.

I just kept thinking of the day I quit working for you. I hated you so much that day. And for so long after. I’m still so hurt.

You’ve hurt me so many times, Mommy. It’s the exact fucking opposite of what you’re supposed to do. I was only brave enough to tell you that you’d hurt me a few times and that was such a huge mistake, too. You hurt me more then.

I’m also thinking about the things in your life that broke you. Something had to just go so wrong. I know that inside you are broken like I am, but something else happened. The biggest things I can think of besides when Daddy left is that you lost all three of your parents. The worst was your dad.

And I just keep thinking that you’ll have all three of them again.

I found out today you’re being given morphine for your stress. I just keep thinking about how people usually talk about assisted suicide. It always involves morphine. Is this it? Is this your end?

I hate that I can’t talk to you. I fucking hate it.

Yesterday had me thinking of you a lot. Just all the time I think about you now. The two biggest things about yesterday that made me think of you were eating our apple slices for the New Year (Happy 5777! Party like it’s 5799!), and I told husband all about how it was a tradition you and I had taken part of with whatever temple we belonged to for as long as I can remember. It has always been and will always be something that makes me think of you.

The other was sewing. When we moved in, the windows all had curtains but they’re all like 2 feet longer than the windows and they look stupid and the kitten spent about 6 months trying to kill all of them violently. It’s been an incredibly long project but I’ve been slowly hemming them all since we moved here. Last night I took care of another curtain. Every step of the way you were in my mind, gently walking me through the correct way to do everything. “Clean the bobbin chute while you have the reel out. Put in your first stitches manually so your threads don’t pull out. Watch your fingers. You see this nail? I put a machine needle though this nail.”

You know, to this day, I have no idea if that story is even real or not.

But now, I suppose it will always have to be.

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.