When I was 13, we moved away, landing in Auburn, California, Lake of the Pines, my mother was now alone, away from her family and her old friends, away from musical pursuits, from so many of the things that were familiar to her. That isn't to say that we had a bad life there, mom worked hard to provide for us and attempted to stay ahead of her illness. We had my grandfather and my uncle nearby, and for a brief time, my grandmother. We were away from a city which could have eaten my brothers and I alive when we were young and impressionable, and often left without supervision. My mother's illness progressed, her depression became worse and worse, her spurts of mania often a somewhat pleasant relief from the extreme sadness which often found her laying in bed, sleeping away the pain. Finally, one night, after a day of heavy drinking and reminiscing, she mixed her medications with alcohol in a lethal amount, and physically left us one final time.
They say that grief is different for everyone, that moving on after the death of a loved one is more difficult for some than for others. Looking back over the last 18 years, I'd have to say that my grief lasted longer than I ever thought it would. I've mourned for her numerous times over the years, never sure how something or another will affect me. I've wished her here so many times, to see her eyes light up with mischief, to hear her laugh at some raunchy joke, to hear her sing some silly song to get me through something. Her voice really was so beautiful, her smile lit the room, and her laughter, oh her laughter, merriment unleashed.
Because of her death at such a tumultuous time during my teen age years, I think I carried not only sadness at life's milestones passed without her, but also guilt that I'd been to hard on her. I felt anger that life dared to go on it's merry way without my beautiful mother, frustration that I just couldn't get over it, and confusion over just how I could possibly continue to live without her.
I've tried over and over to replace her in my life, to fill that mother spot with wonderful women who have so graciously led me through those times when I needed a momma. I've never found one that filled it in entirely, not because no one was good enough, all were wonderful mentors and friends, but because that spot is just not one that is meant to be refilled.
The key to the end of my grief has been, and forever will be, my relationship with my own daughter and my relationships with my students. I've let go of the guilt, because I've finally realized that I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. I've learned that most teen girls go through that difficult time with their mother's, that they come out on the other side.
The key is that life is long, life is a learning experience that doesn't end with graduation, life changes over time, even if it seems that it will stay the same always.
Tomorrow we will celebrate my grandfather's 99th birthday. His life has been so rich with experience, so full of wonderful, and not so wonderful things. His life is a lesson in itself. Since I was 13 years old, my grandfather has taught me even when I didn't want to learn. He's taught me to let go, that physical possessions aren't the key to happiness. He's taught me that even through grief, we find joy. He's taught me that life can go on, even when we experience the greatest of losses. He's taught me that there is an opportunity beyond every closed door. Because of the stability that his rock solid acceptance has given me, I was able to move forward.
I broke free completely of the past with my vacation, I broke free and realized that my pain was no greater or important than the pain of others. I realized that my grandfather is not the only one who accepts me and loves me. I realized that I am not my mother. I realized, finally, that I am the product of all the people who were around me growing up.
Longevity runs in my family, as does staying put, family is important, we stand by one another through the rough waters, and we stand with one another in the calm. My grandfather's 99 years are a blessing, a window to the future, a peak at what can change over a century, and more importantly, what stays the same. My visit with my family showed me that I have put less value on myself than I should have, that the person who was constantly comparing me to my mother was the person who I see in the mirror each day, the person who doubted my ability as a mother, a student, an employee, a productive human being, was me. The voice I heard urging on this doubt was not a real one, but a young girl's interpretation of her mother's mentally ill fogged glasses. Praise God for my family, for my Grandpa Bob, for the wisdom we gain from family and friends, for every blessing, even those we don't recognize.
I found something last week, something that spoke to my heart and reminded me that even though my mother is no longer walking this earth, she is with me still:
"Your mother is always with you. She is the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street. She's the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick, the fragrance of life itself. She's the cool hand on your brow when you're not feeling well. She's your breath in the air on a cold winter's day. She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep, the colors of a rainbow; she is Christmas morning. Your mother lives inside your laughter. She's the place you came from, your first home, and she's the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, but nothing can ever separate you; not time, not space, not even death." -Unknown