15

She said that I run from myself. That I give myself too much to do to avoid dealing with myself and that I’m afraid if I actually stop, I will have to sit still and deal with myself. And it’s true; I mean, it wasn’t a revelation in the sense that I wasn’t aware of it on at least on at least a subconscious level but it was the first time anyone had flat out said it. I’ve said before busy can be another word for lazy, more to the point if you give yourself too much to do you’ll never have anything to do. And it’s true; I have a tendency to run from myself, to put a lot on my plate so I won’t see my face in its reflection, I even leave the bathroom after a shower at times when I notice the steam fade from the mirror. And it got worse when my mother died. I couldn’t sit still or stop talking or listen to music loud enough or tell enough jokes to avoid what I couldn’t face.

I walked in the room, and they closed the door behind me. I see my mother, laying in the hospice bed, I hear breathing, I hear the machines, I don’t hear anything, like the slow pop right before a tornado hits. I walk over to the side of her bed and sit down next to her. I see the primary source of all my love and strength with tubes in and out, an oxygen mask on her face with machines beeping and buzzing in the background. I see her eyes closed, I see her mouth just barely open pushing out a shallow victory with each breath through the mask and I am afraid. I pick up a hand smaller than I’m used to and I rub my palm over knuckles coated in soft skin and say “I’m here, momma, I’m here.” She moves her head over to see who spoke and she opens her eyes and she sees me and her eyes roll up slowly and I walked in the room, and they closed the door behind me. I see my mother, laying in the hospice bed, I hear breathing, I hear the machines, I don’t hear anything, like the slow pop right before a tornado hits. I walk over to the side of her bed and sit down next to her. I see the primary source of all my love and strength with tubes in and out, an oxygen mask on her face with machines beeping and buzzing in the background. I see her eyes closed, I see her mouth just barely open pushing out a shallow victory with each breath through the mask and I am afraid. I pick up a hand smaller than I’m used to and I rub my palm over knuckles coated in soft skin and say “I’m here, momma, I’m here.” She moves her head over to see who spoke and she opens her eyes and she sees me and her eyes roll up slowly and I walked in the room, and they closed the door behind me. I see my mother, laying in the hospice bed, I hear breathing, I hear the machines, I don’t hear anything, like the slow pop right before a tornado hits. I walk over to the side of her bed and sit down next to her. I see the primary source of all my love and strength with tubes in and out, an oxygen mask on her face with machines beeping and buzzing in the background. I see her eyes closed, I see her mouth just barely open pushing out a shallow victory with each breath through the mask and I am afraid. I pick up a hand smaller than I’m used to and I rub my palm over knuckles coated in soft skin and say “I’m here, momma, I’m here.” She moves her head over to see who spoke and she opens her eyes and she sees me and her eyes roll up slowly and

Repeat since 2003

What I’ve only told a handful of people up to this point is that I am not my mother’s child by birth. Her biological son was away in Iraq and was being rushed back as fast as he could be carried. He was her only child and these being her last moments I assume she had wanted him there, she fought temperatures above one hundred, heart beating like crazy the entire day with the nurse confuse as to why she was even holding on; she was waiting for son. But she didn’t see him; she saw me. She saw me, and she died. I carried that for years now, (still carry if I’m being honest) never telling anyone that I killed my mother. My dad told me after I finally told him that her and her born son had grown further apart in the last years, and she had gotten closer to me, but it was as pointless to hear him say it as it is to type it now. One of the first and few people to love me like I didn’t have some kind of mark over me and she died the minute she saw me..

She said I run, and I do.

It’s amazing what catches up with you when stop.

She was waiting for her son. But she didn’t see her son, she saw me. She saw me and she died.

I don’t like being touched.
I don’t like that I don’t like being touched.
I don’t like sitting away

No matter who wants you the only one that matters is the one who wants in, and to stay and for the right reason. Everyone else may as well take what they want and go; you know what you want, I know what you want, so please don’t bother assuming you’ve got the heart to be what I need; just leave the money on the dresser, and leave quietly without the insult of a thank you.

I still hate my birth mother. I hug her, and I smile at her, but God forgive me I hate her. I hate for loving me like an employee and setting a standard, I hate her for walking in and not saying anything as she walked into the next room. I don’t want her near my children. I hate that I may never be able to say any of this to her with exploding. I hate her for letting every man who hit it hit us. I hate her because I love her that much despite it all, even if she did worse.

I can’t make my mind quiet sometimes.

I wish I could let it all out, but I can’t, or I won’t, pick one.