I’ve been a bit weepy the last few days.
Nothing major, just tears that well up, fall, then pass. I know within that it’s because this Mother’s Day is the 15 year anniversary of my close friend dying. I know from past years that I tend to get weepy the few days leading up to Mother’s Day. But knowing all this doesn’t make it easier. Isn’t it frustrating when our knowledge won’t override the expectations we put on ourselves?
Brian and I planned to celebrate Mother’s Day with the kids on Saturday b/c I was going to drive north on Sunday. I’m going to visit my friend’s grave site. Then my mom and grandma will join up with me to see a movie and have dinner. Saturday seemed to be a better day to do some fun stuff with the kids.
But without any intention to, shortly after waking up, some of my buttons were pushed and because the tears have been right there, right underneath the surface, they took us all by surprise when the flood came. Instead of getting ready to head out for the day with Brian and the kids, I was upstairs crying. I couldn’t pull it together. My past was alive and in my face. The present surrounding me felt like a fog–people and things out of reach.
As hard as I’ve worked at riding the waves of my grief with ease, they still seem to tidal wave my confidence every time.
What do you do when you so desperately want to be hugged or held but being touched is the one thing you cannot handle? What do you do when you feel like you’re letting your children down because they were so excited to do “this and that” for you, and you can’t pull it together enough to come downstairs? What do you do when the voices inside your head are taunting you, reminding you of how your pain seems to only hurt the ones you love…
Brian is waiting.
He is now in the bedroom with me, sitting on the bed. He is quiet.
I want to yell at him, blame him, tell him to leave me alone…but I know this battle isn’t with Brian. The battle is with myself.
He says, “your beautiful.”
How can he say that.
He says, “your pain, your losses, your grief…it makes you not only beautiful, but stunning.”
He says, “I know you want to be held, but I also know that being touched is to much in this moment. So I want you to know I’m okay waiting.”
I feel like I can’t breathe. The buttons that were pushed this morning were so minor to the pain that seems to be swallowing up our home. I race through all the questions, “Why can’t I be stronger than this? Why do I have to ruin Mother’s Day? What damage am I doing to my kids? Why am I such a mess? Why do I feel like damaged goods again…” The thoughts build like a cyclone inside my head.
And then–without warning–it breaks apart.
The crying transforms to wailing. Brian knows my walls have finally come down. He asks for permission to hold me. I say yes.
Pascaline stands on the other side of the door. I feel like I have failed her.
Brian invites her inside the room and says, “Pascaline, you know how you can get an owie and then it bruises? You know how it hurts when someone pushes on that bruise?” She nods. “Both mom and dad have had painful owies from when we were younger. And sometimes we push on each other’s owies without meaning too, and it makes us hurt all over again. When your older, we’ll tell you more about the things we’ve gone through, but for now, I want you to know that this is what’s going on with mom.”
I take Pascaline’s hand, hold it, give her a hug and tell her I love her. She seems to be okay and runs off to play with Blaze.
I tell Brian that I feel like I’ve ruined this Mother’s Day. He says, “Me Ra, you are the wonderful, passionate, extreme person you are because of the pain you’ve endured. You may not be put together for Pascaline today. But don’t miss the message you gave her. Despite how much you hurt, and how your hurt can separate you from the ones you love, you…you always choose to come back to us. This is the gift you give your family.”
I wanted so much more for our Mother’s Day this year. But this is what it was. The rest of our day was off. We were all exhausted from the morning. After being out for a couple hours, we came home and took long naps. We had pizza with friends and decided to save the Korean restaurant for another night.
The voices never stopped taunting me throughout the day, reminding me of how this was all my fault. You see, they are always with me. But if I could get through the day without responding to those voices, without making decisions based on those voices, then I will have won. Not a “glorious triumph” type of win. But that’s okay, a win is still a win.
To all the beautiful mothers who visit my blog, I hope you see how you’ve won time and time again. I hope you feel celebrated because of your many triumphs. Because whether physically or emotionally, you have not let your pain separate you from the ones you love. You work to not let your own voices dictate your decisions. And you are beautiful in all the things that make you strong and especially weak. You too are stunning.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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