Bitter Roots
I have chewed on bitter roots pretending to be fruit, smiling numbly when my soul was in jeopardy. I am no stranger to confusion. But I am on my own side now, and I know when to ask for help. And when it arrives, I know how to accept it. Somehow I learned that asking for help is a sign of weakness. Something to be ashamed of. A character defect. I was burdened and alone. So burdened with my aloneness, I could not ask for help.
When my mother died, the January of my 11th birthday, and no one asked how I was holding up, I shoved and shelved my feelings deep into darkness, where they festered and frightened and threatened to un-do me. I didn’t want to come un-done, but there was no escaping it. It was as ugly as I’d imagined. I keep picking at this wound, healed on the surface. No one asked me if I needed help. Already on the verge of going under, how could I survive this loss?
I pushed it all under, with the sordid sorry silenced mess and smiled pretty, tried like hell to appear grateful that my aunt and uncle took me in but I fooled no one, with my phony fakery. And even though I had friends, I still felt burdened and alone. I’m not interested in blame and will no longer entertain shame, but there’s a reason I keep on coming back to this (and the people who threw the “You’re just looking for sympathy” at me can go kiss a tree. Like I needed more shame, in a pack impossible to carry).
My neighbor’s mother died (across, not next to), and I took her a card and a photograph, listened to the end we knew was coming. Doug and I took care of her yard, one less thing to worry about. Neighbors helping neighbors. Even when you have no idea what to say, say *something*. Make the effort to connect. We laughed about my telling Doug I must die first, because I’m hopeless about ‘arrangements’. She said her mom told an older friend she didn’t want to live til 90, and she was well into them! Death comes for all of us and there’s no bargaining. I’m not afraid to die, but I’m afraid of not living well. Of being the old grumpy lady the kids are all afraid of. “Get off of my lawn or I’ll call the police!” I can turn surly. What if I can’t control it? What if I lose my words, and can’t tell you what I mean?
I’ve said in a poem once, in many different ways, ‘Beauty is the antidote to suffering.” Dear Lord, keep me kind and cheerful until the end, and always grateful for your multitude of blessings. Maybe now, I am ready to release this mother loss.
LBM 8/24/2019
