April Showers

There exist a place where you are forever 24 and I am forever happy to be your Mom. You are forever 24 but no where in sight. I'm learning to find you in strange and odd things that are forced on me, like sunset that has a little extra beauty when it dips behind the horizon and the peace lily that thrives on the porch. You told me several times the sunset is where you will be. So it's there I look for you, but even then- there is no conversation. There is no healing in the silence. I find myself dreading Mother's Day. You're not here to text or call me. This year, there will be no acknowledgement of my place in your life as Mom, yet you were always so clear about it. "You're my mom, so deal with it." You told me that more than once, several times actually.  "I chose you, so there you have it. You're my Mom."  I find myself wanting to scream from depths I never knew existed. I want to crumble, like I did when the police officers stood in my li...

I've noticed something in the last week.  I've been trauma dumping on a couple of acquaintances. Not my friends, these are people I don't know very well and I'm spilling my guts to them about my grief. I instantly recognized it and knew it was very unhealthy. I think it's my way of protecting my friendships and family relationships, I don't want to burden my loved ones and friends, so I've overshared with people that know the situation, but don't know ME that well.  In case you might not know: trauma dumping is unlike venting. According to Google, it's "sharing trauma without permission, in an inappropriate place and time, to someone who may not have the capacity to process it."  The second time I did it, I walked away in shame. Thoughts bombarded me like "I can't even grieve correctly. Why can't I control this? What's wrong with me? Why am I such a complete fuck up? Get your shit together, April." Easy to recognize th...

When I was 11 years old, my parents took me to a craft show on a Saturday afternoon. Boredom from hell is the only way to describe it. I wanted to leave. I shuffled my feet and looked at the floor, only glancing up ever so often. We turned the corner and there was a booth with handmade items, mostly stuffed animals.  I saw him instantly. A monkey. His face, his eyes, they all called out to me.  Running over, I picked him up and realized he was a puppet. EVEN BETTER! Instantly, my eyes teared up. There was something special about this handmade monkey and my heart nearly burst with excitement. I was 100% in love! "Mom, Can I have him?" Somehow, I knew this monkey was a boy.  "Please, please, please," I begged, but this wasn't your normal "Can I have this candy bar" begging. I don't ever remember feeling so desperate for anything. He cost $20. In 1988, that was a little more than my parents wanted to pay. "No."  I was stunned. "Mom, you...