It's been nearly five years since you moved on from your earthly existence, and I still miss you every single day. The pain isn't quite so acute, but it still lingers. I still ache, still long to visit with you and share my troubles and hurts, my joys and successes. I still want to sit and share my stories and brainstorm ideas. The problem is, you're not here and there's not a darn thing I can do about it.
Things have been hard--really hard--with TinMan the past couple of years. He got himself in some pretty serious trouble this past year and almost ended up in Juvenile Detention. We got him into a Day Treatment program instead. It took several months to get him accepted, but it seems to be making a big difference and I'm beginning to feel a bit of relief. Birdie is failing almost all of his classes and doesn't seem to care except for the consequences. I'm just at a point where I don't know what to do, and talking to you would be such a help and relief. You always know the right thing to say, but again, you're not here.
I realized the other day that you would be Eighty-One now. It seems impossible. You were always so young. It just goes to prove what I've been feeling lately about age. It just keeps marching on whether you want it to or not. The years disappear and there is no retrieving them.
Mom, I can't write. My stories are stuck inside of me and I can't let them out and I don't know why. I want to write. I want it sooo bad. But the words fail me when I try. How do I put simple words on a page when the feelings warring inside of me are beyond expression? I can't talk about it, no matter how hard I try. I just cry and cry and cry and the words won't come, not even with Shari, and I know I can tell her ANYTHING. How do I move beyond this constant ache and live again? Where is the joy that used to come so easily? The peace? I'm doing the things I know I should, trying so hard to keep the spirit with me, but the pain is too much! It's too much! Losing you, struggling with the boys, feeling so alone, hating all my health problems, and not being able to write. Pain, pain, pain! Where can I find freedom and be the real me once again? I'm tired of putting on this mask just to face the world. It is exhausting.
I had thought writing to you would lighten my burden today, but all it has done is bring my emotions to the surface. Yes, I need to release them, but I hate it. I don't want to feel. It hurts too much. Which is probably why I can't write. I can't write if I can't feel. I know that about myself, so why does it take doing this to get me to realize it? Okay, so you helped me after all--but I still miss you and wish I could feel your arms comforting me. Feel your loving kiss on my forehead. I miss talking to you most of all--hearing your stories and having you listen to mine.
And that brings up another thing. Mom, how am I supposed to write your life story? I told you many times that the best person to write it was you because you had lived all the experiences. You were the non-fiction writer, not me. Do you want dragons in your life story? Because I don't know how to write anything but fantasy and I feel so very, very inadequate when it comes to writing about the amazing person you are. How do I tell your stories? I don't know them, not like you. Do I write it as a history? Do I write it as "based on a true story" and write it like fiction? Vignettes? I DON'T KNOW!!! This feels like an impossible task you've given me and I am not worthy to write it. A little inspiration would be great. Actually, tons would be much better, because I'm clueless here.
Dang it, Mom! I miss you!!! Why did you have to go? I need you more than ever.