Looking For Mom

I had a dream last night that I was in my old bedroom of the house that I grew up in. I was in my mid–teens or thereabouts. Something didn’t feel quite right, so I started running down the narrow staircase that we had and began to frantically search for my mother.

“Mom? Mom! Are you there? Mom?!”

Instead of finding my ma, I discovered my kid brother laying on the couch crying.

“She’s gone,” he whispered.

A sense of dread came over me, a panicky feeling that I find hard to describe. It was pure fear and abandonment, I can say that much.

But dreams are so often like that, the finer details become lost once you wake up, so difficult to recall and fully articulate.

It took me a few confused minutes to understand that I’m no longer a teenager, but a mostly capable middle-aged woman. I don’t live in my old home, but now reside in my own condo with my 22 year old daughter, not my little brother anymore, who will be turning 41 at the end of October.

Once I realized that it was a just a dream, I felt an intense relief that I was where I was, even though the main plot is still the same. It’s going on 5 months now since my mom died and I still want to sometimes run around screaming for her to come back.


This is a photo of my mom at her 65th birthday party. She was drunk. If she were here right now, she’d be pissed that I’m showing this picture to anyone. Sorry, mom.

Death is so fucking final. Like my younger brother said in my dream, she’s really gone. There’s no sense in trying to go look for her.

Each day that passes, the void that her death has left inside of me grows wider and larger.

Yet my dream, as unpleasant as it was, seems like a tiny gift telling me that I have come so much farther as a person than I was 30 years ago and that she was a part of that.

My daughter and I have discussed seeing a medium at some point. My mom believed that certain people can truly communicate with the dead. It’s not cheap and anyways, I don’t believe that either of us are ready to take that leap quite yet. But it’s something that we might look into at a later time.

What do you think about the subject?


Sunny Days Always Bring Me Down

I hate when the sun rises and illuminates my bedroom, indicating that it’s time for me to get out of bed.

My phone no longer rings at 8 am. My mom is gone and she called me every morning to help me with the difficult transition from sleeping to being awake. How I miss that daily call. I know that I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t seem to shake the need to repeat myself.

I get this really icky feeling that I can’t seem to find words to explain, which started during the summer of 2015 and has recently made a comeback. It’s dread, fear and panic rolled into one nasty emotion.

Is it a form of existential dread, wonky brain chemicals or what, I haven’t the slightest clue.

Some mornings are better than others. I come downstairs and take care of my dogs first, food and water for them, then I let them outside to do their thing. I make my solo cup of coffee and then use the restroom myself. I take my morning medications and when my coffee is ready, I go sit in front of my laptop and turn it on.

Just do the next thing, the grief group book advises.

My boyfriend sends me a good morning text and I’ll respond, as soon as I can think straight enough to form words. He’s the main person that’s keeping me going right now, my lantern in the darkness.

Today would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. How things can change in just one decade. This date means absolutely nothing to me now, yet it brings back memories of how happy my mom was to finally marry me off to someone she trusted, that promised to love and care for me.

Well, we didn’t know.

There’s no way to guess how many years I have left. Only God knows the exact date, time and circumstances. He even knows if I’ll lose my battle with my own self and jump off of a cliff when I’m 51.

Fuck, I am morbid. Steven hates it when I think like that, but I’ve never hid it from him. It comes with the package.

Yes, I still often wish that I could pop off sooner than later, but this is a thought that I’m so accustomed to having, I barely take notice of it anymore. Just like the tide, it comes and goes.

I read something interesting the other day, on how to deal with anxiety and other unwelcome thoughts…face, accept, float, let time pass.


This book is on my reading list, but I’ve watched a few videos and read some of Dr. Weekes advice. She even recommended that suicidal ideation be treated with that same mantra, unless there’s an active plan being put into place.

These are all thoughts of a tired mind.

Well, then I suppose that my mind is pretty damned fucking tired, doc.

I think that I might start sleeping on the couch at night. Maybe a change of scenery will help keep that icky doom thing from laying its ice fingers on me.

I could use a break from it.

I don’t get to see my new therapist until December 5th. The woman who did my intake interview told me that there’s so many people who need psychiatric help and only so many providers to offer that assistance.

I’ve been going to my grief support group at the church every Monday evening, although there’s only two other woman, besides the two lovely ladies who are in charge of it. But they are all extremely nice people and I’m glad to have met them.

It helps somewhat to know that I’m not the only one who feels the need to share my grief instead of keeping it all to myself.

Life Without My Mom

I am able to see the good things in my life that still remain. I am not that far gone, my friends.

I have my daughter, I treasure her every moment of the day.

I made the right choice and was then presented with the gift of my boyfriend, who brings me sunshine, kindness and love…things that I have never had in a romantic relationship before.

I have a handful of loyal friends who haven’t abandoned me in my time of intense sadness. I look up to the heavens and am thankful for their faithful presence in my life.

I’ve felt the touch of God upon my bowed, sorrowful head and have found my faith in Him again, after so many years of traveling on the wrong path filled with evil men and wicked deeds that I readily tolerated.

My life without my mom, it’s something that I always knew would come. When I was younger, the thought would creep into my mind, mostly at bedtime, that one day she would be gone.

The years passed as they do, she turned 60…65…70. I’d roll over and shut my eyes so tightly, until the idea melted away and then I would sleep well in the knowing that in the morning, she would call me like she always did.

Why do I try so hard to pretend that I’m okay when in reality, I am so full of heartache?

My life without my mom, it’s a lonely vista of unspoken emotions, filled with my regrets and my deep desire to hold her again with every cell in my body.

My grief is unbearable.