A piece that documents one of my mother's stays in a behavioral health center.
A poem of sorts about being in such pain, and praying, and then listening so hard for an answer, that I hear someone else praying, and we share our prayers with each other.
The time a man got upset with my mother and spat on her car window.
A piece about the starkness of grief.
“I remember reading about these two guys who escaped prison in Upstate New York a handful of years back, how one of them had a dad who was a total fucking no show. How he finally bought his son a bike for his birthday but it wound up being used and broken, and the son was so disappointed he threw it out the window, and then the police were called and the son was the one who got in trouble.”
“The alarms went off at 4am. My mother insisted I set every one we own. There was no way I was getting up at that ungodly hour so I stayed in bed listening to her rustling—her hairdryer, her zippering—all the things that’ve been annoying me for months, and yet I found myself soaking them all in, knowing I won’t be hearing them again anytime soon.”
Six years ago today, 3/28/16, my mother passed. I miss her so very much.
This week's piece is about trauma.
“The thing about trauma is that if you don’t get it out and identify it as trauma, you risk continuing to cope with trauma simply because you might not have the sense to recognize that’s what it is.”
I decided to post another conversation with my mother because I’ve been missing her so, and it almost feels like I’m actually talking to her when I record these. And I picked this conversation about war, because I’ve been so upset about the situation in Ukraine.
A piece about the unresolved issues that the mothers and daughters in my family uploaded to each other over generations.
The time my mother was about to launch into one of her episodes, and I noticed that what I think actually changes the world around me.
How my mother inadvertently taught me that the way to protect yourself in the world, is to pretend to be someone else. And how I learned from my son that this isn’t a very good idea.
A powerful experience I had one night when my mother was in the hospital and I was staying in her apartment.
The time I tried to help my mother, but discovered she didn’t want my kind of help, and there was nothing I could do about it. A piece about how I learned to honor everyone’s journey, even if it looks problematic to me.