Boys will be boys.

 

My blogs are long.  I know this.  They are boring.  I know this too.  

 

Often they go unedited, unread, unloved--whatever.  Honestly most days i'm lucky to get them posted.  They're my therapy.    

 

It's nice when nice people comment and cheer me along.  It's great to feel that love.  

 

The constructive criticism...meh, whatever.  I doubt anyone's a real fan of that but while it stings it reminds me others are reading.  

 

I do this because I was told to do this by a bereavement counselor.  I started doing this when there was nothing inside of me but black hot pain.  The words gushed all over the page then.  Periods, commas, spacing...none of those mattered.  Thoughts raced and jutted back and forth.  To say that it was uncomprehensible would be me being kind.  It was for no one but me.  

 

I put it here because that's what I was told to do.  Let it go--outside of me.  It was doing me no good on the inside and even if no one read it--which is what I hoped would happen at least I'd let go of it.  

 

 I've come so far since then. 

 

 

Twenty one boxes of kleenex and over 100 posts later...I'm still here.  

 

I didn't think there would ever be a day when I felt strong again.  

 

The blog posts are a reminder, like the lines carved into the door jam going into my kitchen...Charles 10/21/1927, Florence 3/15/1928, Dolly 2/7/1987.  

 

So clearly I can see them there standing up so straight and tall.  Anxiously waiting to be dismissed so they could inspect their new line and compare it to the ones from before that were much lower to the ground. Amazed at how far they've come.    

 

These posts are where I am, where I have been. They remind me how far I've come.  They amaze me.    

 

I could tell you that blogging here is where I go when I miss my mother.  Perhaps even that my blogs here take the place of the things I would say to her.  The things that get pushed down inside when I go to grab my phone to dial her number and then realize she wouldn't answer anyway.  

 

Those things come here.  The confusion.  The need for advice.  The pride in something done well. The fear.  The indifference.  All the jumbled up mess in me that my mother made right.  All the things that she would've giggled about at or squished her nose up at.  All the things I depended on her to support, all the things I needed her to know.  I communicate those here.    

 

I am a real person.  I am not a robot.  I am not words on a page that are not tied to a human heart at the other end of this post.  

 

I write here for release.  

 

You took her place for me. Whether you comment or not, whether you like it or not, whether you read it or not.  These are the words she would've heard if she could.  Sometimes it feels like she speaks through you.  I search for her everywhere.  I doubt that will ever stop.  

 

Yesterday my son had an accident on his dirtbike.  He and a buddy crashed into one another. Blood was everywhere, shoes scattered, screaming...my heart started pounding through my chest, tears streamed down my face.  I sit waiting for any news next to a window, God is that what I really look like? I think as I catch a glimpse of my reflection.  Then I notice a cardinal sitting on a branch of the crepe myrtle tree right outside the window.  

 

'He's ok Mom.  He's going to be ok', I whisper under my breath.  

 

Kindness, tolerance and love appreciated regardless of the state of the post.  

 

All my love, 

juls

 

 

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Comments (2)

  1. juls

    I wish I could edit this. I would underline ‘these are the words she would’ve heard if she could’. I would change the picture with the curse word to a picture of a red bird, capitalize Cardinal, and add a comma after tolerance. An Oxford comma, you know bc I still give an eff about those despite the cool song to the contrary Lol. Still no editing ability thoughts, very sad!

    July 31, 2017
  2. RRoe

    I see you posted this blog twice … so I will comment again. Double hugs to you.

    July 31, 2017