I have so many memories and stories from my childhood. Some I’ve been told and some of those memories and stories have now been so jaded that I don’t know what the hell is even true anymore.
You’re the mother. You’re supposed to have the answers to my questions. It’s not your fault I never had the courage to ask. Mom, when will your death feel real?
It was a very anti-feminist idea, this searching for partnership with the fervor of a career, but I liked the possibility that this girl, at 29, was wise enough to design her own feminism.
When Loretta’s best friend phones to tell me Loretta has died, I know I have to call our daughter. There, in the dark. I text her: Bad news. Phone when you can.
Getting better is a strange phenomenon with an eating disorder. If I truly wanted to get better, I would have to be ok with letting go. With saying goodbye to that anorexic voice in my head. Over the years, that voice has become part of me. It is a bad friend but has become an old friend. It makes me feel in control. B
No one had to tell me what had happened. No one had to say aloud that she was gone, I just knew it. I knew my mother was dead. I didn’t know how or why or the specifics, but it didn’t matter, she was gone.
My lips purse involuntarily. Shallow creases branch up from the crimson borders like run-off channels carved into dry desert hills. It is time for me to set a good example. I turn on the tap and run the water until it is warm. Then I pull a thick terry washcloth from the sea grass basket that sits on my counter and let it soak in the warmth.
I remember sitting cross-legged on the seat cushion I use to meditate—it’s from a favorite chair that was discarded long ago. After two shallow, ragged breaths I burst into tears and cried for a long time.
I’ve often heard people say that my mother had a choice. That if she did not want to chance getting pregnant, she should have abstained from having sex. It seems so simple, doesn’t it? And yet I’ve never once heard anyone say those words about the men who got her pregnant.
My perspective on illness has changed since I was a child, and it’s also changed since my last surgical intervention. I’ve learned that illness isn’t always in the physical scars. I’ve learned that some wounds aren’t visible, and some wounds even we don't know we have, until we choose to take care of them. But I’ve also learned that I’m resilient, strong, broken and put together again, differently, yet even more beautiful than before – like a mosaic.
Once he has recovered from the shock of his traumatic experience, will he lash out at those around him, seeking fanged vengeance for his lack of a stable puppyhood and who or whatever inflicted the map of angry grey scars across his head?
