This week has been a week of reflection. Today is only Wednesday so I imagine the rest of the week will be much the same.
I know I haven’t posted much this month. I took an unplanned month off of writing, of posting, of doing much of anything, really. I can’t even blame it on an active social life, as I don’t have one. All my friends are online. I don’t have anyone here that I go out for coffee with, that I go shopping with, that I just hang with. I hang with my computer, my dog Sam and sometimes the husband.
Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel as if I’m missing out. At one time I had all those things. Good friends that I had coffee with, shopped with, or just hung out with. So I know what it’s like to have all that. It might seem strange to you that I much prefer how I am now. Today. Right this minute. On my computer typing out words that my friends will read.
Do I ever get lonely? You might ask that. The short answer…No. No, I very rarely get lonely. I enjoy my solitary lifestyle. It’s not for everyone. The husband hates being alone. In fact, he gets depressed if he’s alone for too long. He enjoys people. Being with people, talking, joking, laughing, drinking, whatever he and his friends do together. He enjoys that interaction and he misses it when he doesn’t get it. He is the type of person who needs other people around, he thrives on it. Unfortunately, since he got so sick and can’t do much physically his ‘friends’ have faded into the background.
This hurts him. He doesn’t understand it.
I do. Sort of.
The past year or so has been rough. Hell, the past four years have been rough. I don’t feel sorry for myself. It has shown me just how strong I can be. That’s always a good thing.
When my mom died at the end of May it hit hard. Not because my mom and I were best friends or that we had a tight bond. We weren’t and we didn’t. My mom and I had a rocky relationship since the day I was born. That’s ok. She taught me how to be strong and how to be my own woman. I guess you could say she taught me the true meaning of ‘tough love’. It was tough to love her. But I did. I just didn’t always like her. Or her me.
A few people know I have written my autobiography. I haven’t published it. I wouldn’t publish it while my mother was still alive. Now that she’s gone? I probably still won’t publish it. Not yet. Maybe never. It’s not pretty. I’m not even sure if it would have a happy ending. Because my life is still ongoing. For now.
The writings have a lot of my mom in them. She was never the hug you, compliment you, tell you she loves you type of mother. I never heard those words from her. “I love you.” Never. Not once. My sister and I had a conversation the other week and we discussed our mother and never hearing those words from her. It bothers my sister. It doesn’t bother me. Why? Because I accept that was the kind of woman my mother was. My sister has a harder time accepting that. That’s her right. I don’t try to persuade her otherwise.
The only time I heard my mother say, “I’m sorry” was for something she never did. Which seems strange, as she did plenty. Yet, the only time I heard her apologize to me was for something that was never in her control. My sexual abuse. She never even knew about it until I was an adult. Then she had to ask me outright if I was abused by the person who abused me for years. I told her the truth. That I was. She cried and kept telling me she was sorry.
I told her she had nothing to be sorry for in that instance. It wasn’t her fault. I couldn’t tell her when I was a child and it was happening. And later. Well, what was the point of hurting her so much? So I said nothing. Until she asked me.
My mother was who she was. I am who I am. So we never mentioned it again.
So many memories surfaced when my mother died. Then I received a box from my sister this week. It was filled with memories. With pictures and items from my mother’s house. I looked at all those pictures. Some of so very long ago. Of me. My mother. My dad. And I became reflective.
I called my sister and thanked her for the pictures. As I didn’t have any before that. Not a one. The reason why is another long story I might tell some day. Again. As it’s already a part of my autobiography. And again, it’s a story of me and my mother.
So, I guess, in a long about way, I’m saying why I took an unplanned month off from blogging. Life’s memories got in the way. Mix that in with just being tired to the bone and you have the recipe for doing nothing. Or almost nothing. For a month.
I’m catching my breath back again. With the help of my friends. Here. Now. You. I will be ok.