Tonight, I am a completely different person. Tonight, I am Rachelle Cohen, enjoying the last few moments of serenity before the world crashes down. She doesn't know what's going to happen next, so she is blissfully ignorant. She smiles so much, it makes my cheeks hurt. She is so naive; a quality which seems to grow rarer every day. She thinks the best of everyone she meets. She is the social butterfly that I've been having such a hard time being lately. She just wants to sit back, listen to Nataly Dawn and talk.
I've been neglecting doing any solid writing lately. Instead, I pick fights on forums and sling out unedited posts on this blog. I've just been regurgitating every brief thought that comes to me. I spent a lot of yesterday trying to do something creative. I thought it would be a good time to start fleshing out my characters for the novel that I talk about incessantly but never write down. I must be a total pain in the ass to listen to about it, I'm sorry!
Yesterday didn't go so well. It felt awkward and uncomfortable to try to speak for my characters. How would they react? What would they say? All of my characters have a little bit of me in them, but I think all fictional characters do. But I'm not Rachelle. Some of the questions I'm using, for example:
1.
What is the thing that has frightened you most? Do you think there is
anything out there that's scarier than that? What do you think that
would be?
2. Has anyone or anything you've ever cared about died? How did you feel about it? What happened?
3. What was the worst injury you've ever received? How did it happen?
4. How ticklish are you? Where are you ticklish?
5. What is your current long term goal?
6. What is your current short term goal?
7. Do you have any bad habits? If so, what are they, and do you plan to get rid of them?
8.
If you were a mundane person, what would you do with your life? What
occupation would you want, and how would you spend all your time?
9.
What time period do you wish you had lived in? Why? (Looking at this as
an attempt to change history doesn't count.) What appeals to you about
this era?
10. How private of a person are you? Why?
I don't think I could answer most of these questions about my best friend and be even remotely accurate. It feels weird to just pull it all out of thin air, to know a person like I know myself. Earlier this week, I turned my nose up in disgust at my father and brother watching UFC, and then immediately return to read 'Conan of the Red Brotherhood'. Within two paragraphs of picking it up, the barbarian hero cleaves a pirate in two. No big deal, Conan. What's the difference? Aren't I just trading one violence for another? I'm still finding entertainment in bloodshed.
When you dive into a book, the story comes alive and the characters feel real. When I read about the Vixen docking at Thieves' Port, I can almost smell the salty air. Any bibliophile could explain to you what I mean. You become immersed. I can only hope that the characters I write about will come alive to my readers. A believable character is so important to a novel. It is the main reason I read 'Paper Towns'. So here I am, filing out the second half of Rachelle's character development questionnaire. Even if I am making it up on the fly, I know a little bit more about my hapless heroine. I hope it transfers over well, otherwise this seems like a huge waste of time.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
The Demon in My Brain
The demon inside of me stirs. She is awake, which invariably means I too must be awake. She is restless. She leads me around and around, weaving an erratic patten through this city of mine. I think she's hungry, but I can never tell with her. Like a fussy child, my demon refuses to tell me what she wants but turns her nose up at all of my suggestions.
She nips at my toes until they ache, cold and damp from Halifax's wet winters. She pleads with me to take her inside. I know how she hates the cold and I try to steel myself to the weather as best I can, but nothing seems to be enough for her. Beads of sweat gather in the small of my back under layers upon layers of cotton and wool, but she still finds something. My demon bites my face and ears or chews idly on my fingertips. The only place she is content is buried under a mountain of blankets, curled up in bed.
If that was enough to satisfy the monster inside me, I could manage her much easier. That would be too easy for her. My hidden imp instead must lay in wait for the perfect moment to pick a new fight with me. The bathroom is too far, she cries. She won't relinquish her safety and comfort. Instead, she waits until the urgency is overwhelming and I may not make it. She feeds on moments like this, I think. My fear and shame give her strength.
When she is strong like this, she needs little sustenance. She turns her nose up stubbornly at most forms of food, or lets it land heavily in my stomach in protest. She twists and squirms uncomfortably inside of me when I eat things not listed on her brief list of acceptable edibles. She isn't cruel to me in this way. My demon will not make me nauseous or reject my meals, but there is a sickness to it. A heavy, weak, unhappy sickness. A hamburger for lunch will upset her for the rest of the day, which means she will upset me for the day in turn. My demon likes apples and muffins best this year. last year, it was toast with jam and the year before that was crackers and peanut butter. once in a while she is content with a cheese sandwich or a chicken strip, but it is best to stay with the safe bet. Carbs are always a safe bet.
The limited diet isn't so bad. To be frank, the loss of appetite is the greatest of her tricks. I love food and I love to eat. She insists I'm not hungry. After leading me past grocery stores, convenience stores, fast food chains and restaurants, she'll simply change her mind. "You aren't hungry anyway." She tells me in her small voice, soft and convincing. "You just wanted a coffee all along." As always, I am obliged to agree. Coffee is her true weakness. To stay in control, she must be awake. Who knows what a good night's rest will do to me or her control? So she hides sleep from me in that secret place she stores my appetite. She truly is a demon.
Why don't I fight her? Why do I let this tiny, demanding imp control me? It really isn't that simple. My demon is not an unseen parasite that is eating me alive. We co-exist symbiotically. Most days I am a mere vessel for her, my own mind hiding in some safe corner for the spring thaw. My demon thinks and speaks for us both but she needs me to act. She is a mere muse.
Two minds in one brain. They dance and swirl around each other inside of me, sometimes colliding but rarely conflicting. Some days that are harder than others, it can be difficult to differ between the two of them. On these tough days, we don't bicker. She doesn't make demands of me and I don't push her. Hard days can shut us both down, leaving my body abandoned as a hollow shell staring off into the middle-distance of nothingness. Hard days are void.
My demon can be dark sometimes. She can say hateful things and urge my body to act cruelly. My demon has a temper, especially when left ignored for too long as I have been doing now. She demands her caffeine fix that I have been avoiding. She is rapping her knuckles against my forehead in annoyance. The ache is a nuisance. My demon is a pest.
Second Cup has served me a nice, hot honey tea latte. my demon is already settling back in the warmth. her protest to my decision of a cheddar scone instead of the morning glory muffin she had immediately chosen is evident in the thick, groggy feeling in my abdomen, but there must be compromise, even when dealing with demons. maybe now she'll be satisfied enough to let me work productively. please, imp, let me be inspired. Let me create a world and develop a plot. Let me write about more than your nagging. Don't make me wait for spring again, I want to be me sometimes too. I'm not asking much, just a little time to create without the wave of depression ushering me back to bed.
Maybe I have it backwards. maybe I'm the demon after all and my muse is merely fighting to the surface. Maybe she is floating in this abyss with me, suffering as I do. Who do I think I am?
She nips at my toes until they ache, cold and damp from Halifax's wet winters. She pleads with me to take her inside. I know how she hates the cold and I try to steel myself to the weather as best I can, but nothing seems to be enough for her. Beads of sweat gather in the small of my back under layers upon layers of cotton and wool, but she still finds something. My demon bites my face and ears or chews idly on my fingertips. The only place she is content is buried under a mountain of blankets, curled up in bed.
If that was enough to satisfy the monster inside me, I could manage her much easier. That would be too easy for her. My hidden imp instead must lay in wait for the perfect moment to pick a new fight with me. The bathroom is too far, she cries. She won't relinquish her safety and comfort. Instead, she waits until the urgency is overwhelming and I may not make it. She feeds on moments like this, I think. My fear and shame give her strength.
When she is strong like this, she needs little sustenance. She turns her nose up stubbornly at most forms of food, or lets it land heavily in my stomach in protest. She twists and squirms uncomfortably inside of me when I eat things not listed on her brief list of acceptable edibles. She isn't cruel to me in this way. My demon will not make me nauseous or reject my meals, but there is a sickness to it. A heavy, weak, unhappy sickness. A hamburger for lunch will upset her for the rest of the day, which means she will upset me for the day in turn. My demon likes apples and muffins best this year. last year, it was toast with jam and the year before that was crackers and peanut butter. once in a while she is content with a cheese sandwich or a chicken strip, but it is best to stay with the safe bet. Carbs are always a safe bet.
The limited diet isn't so bad. To be frank, the loss of appetite is the greatest of her tricks. I love food and I love to eat. She insists I'm not hungry. After leading me past grocery stores, convenience stores, fast food chains and restaurants, she'll simply change her mind. "You aren't hungry anyway." She tells me in her small voice, soft and convincing. "You just wanted a coffee all along." As always, I am obliged to agree. Coffee is her true weakness. To stay in control, she must be awake. Who knows what a good night's rest will do to me or her control? So she hides sleep from me in that secret place she stores my appetite. She truly is a demon.
Why don't I fight her? Why do I let this tiny, demanding imp control me? It really isn't that simple. My demon is not an unseen parasite that is eating me alive. We co-exist symbiotically. Most days I am a mere vessel for her, my own mind hiding in some safe corner for the spring thaw. My demon thinks and speaks for us both but she needs me to act. She is a mere muse.
Two minds in one brain. They dance and swirl around each other inside of me, sometimes colliding but rarely conflicting. Some days that are harder than others, it can be difficult to differ between the two of them. On these tough days, we don't bicker. She doesn't make demands of me and I don't push her. Hard days can shut us both down, leaving my body abandoned as a hollow shell staring off into the middle-distance of nothingness. Hard days are void.
My demon can be dark sometimes. She can say hateful things and urge my body to act cruelly. My demon has a temper, especially when left ignored for too long as I have been doing now. She demands her caffeine fix that I have been avoiding. She is rapping her knuckles against my forehead in annoyance. The ache is a nuisance. My demon is a pest.
Second Cup has served me a nice, hot honey tea latte. my demon is already settling back in the warmth. her protest to my decision of a cheddar scone instead of the morning glory muffin she had immediately chosen is evident in the thick, groggy feeling in my abdomen, but there must be compromise, even when dealing with demons. maybe now she'll be satisfied enough to let me work productively. please, imp, let me be inspired. Let me create a world and develop a plot. Let me write about more than your nagging. Don't make me wait for spring again, I want to be me sometimes too. I'm not asking much, just a little time to create without the wave of depression ushering me back to bed.
Maybe I have it backwards. maybe I'm the demon after all and my muse is merely fighting to the surface. Maybe she is floating in this abyss with me, suffering as I do. Who do I think I am?
Monday, February 11, 2013
The Ballad of Peter Parker
I love Spider-man. This isn't a secret. Of all my super hero crushes, Spider-man has stood the test of time. He was the first, and he'll be my last. Spider-man is my one true love.
I can forgive issue #700, even if I don't ever pick up an issue of 'The Superior Spider-man'. Comic books just run dry sometimes. They pass their own expiration date, no matter how hard the writers and fans try to deny it. Does anyone else remember the meltdown that occurred with DC fandoms when they first announced the reboot of many of their most popular titles? AN UPROAR, I TELL YOU. I still read all my old favourites, and I even used it as an opportunity to pick up some titles I hadn't read before. When you want to get into a new series, starting on an issue like #537 can be daunting. There is so much that was missed. You're jumping into something that already has so much history, so much back story. It is discouraging. Everything that comes together must inevitably come apart and The Amazing Spider-man is no different. Peter Parker's time has passed and he bowed out as gracefully as possible.
I will not read 'The Superior Spider-man". What is Spider-man without Peter Parker? The fact of the matter is I am not in love with Spider-man, but the boy behind the mask. Peter was just a scared kid when he first put on his spandex suit. An awkward, nerdy boy who went unnoticed by the world. Tony Stark is a billionaire playboy, Reed Richards is a world-renowned scientist, Thor is literally a GOD! Peter was just a boy trying to get through school and keep his girlfriend happy. He was a genius that rarely got the credit he deserved. Someone who would later work in a think tank with the world's greatest minds spent most of his time behind a camera lens, working freelance for a newspaper that was edited by a man who hated him in and out of the mask. Sure, Peter wore plenty of hats in his life. He was briefly a science teacher at his old high school, assistant high school coach, et cetera. Just think about that for a moment. This man had a masters degree in biophysics, and he was a freelance photographer barely making enough money to make web fluids. That hardly seems fair.
Peter had more than his share of bad luck and short straws. He was constantly under attack, constantly worrying about those he loved, constantly disappearing for the sake of the city. And for what? What did Peter the man have that he didn't have to give up for Spiderman? Peter is the most selfless, sacrificing person in comic book history, and I don't care to hear any arguments on the matter. He has faced loss after loss, hurt after hurt, heartache after heartache and he kept going. The city he is sworn to protect considers him a menace, and he fought on for them. With his last breath, he still fought for them.
Peter was an outcast with an unfaltering sense of humor. Loyal to a fault and kind to anyone. He could have, at any point, killed the King Pin, Lizard, Morbius (especially Morbius) but that isn't Peter. He would only use the necessary amount of force to subdue his foes, petty criminals and super villains alike. Beneath Spider-man's thirst for justice beats Peter Parker's heart. A heart that beats for his family, his city, his country, his planet.
Without Peter, who would Spider-man be? You can read about it in 'The Superior Spider-man' if you'd like. Otto Octavius has swapped minds with Peter, and when his old, crippled body died, Peter died with it. Spider-man's legacy lives on, with Otto living the life he stole from Peter, but it isn't the same. Not to me. I hear in this new series Peter is still in there somewhere, as a ghost or a subconscious or some such. It may be a great success, it may be a flop. Who can tell so early? As far as I'm concerned, there is only one Spider-man and there will only be one scared, lonely boy behind that mask I'll care about.
I can forgive issue #700, even if I don't ever pick up an issue of 'The Superior Spider-man'. Comic books just run dry sometimes. They pass their own expiration date, no matter how hard the writers and fans try to deny it. Does anyone else remember the meltdown that occurred with DC fandoms when they first announced the reboot of many of their most popular titles? AN UPROAR, I TELL YOU. I still read all my old favourites, and I even used it as an opportunity to pick up some titles I hadn't read before. When you want to get into a new series, starting on an issue like #537 can be daunting. There is so much that was missed. You're jumping into something that already has so much history, so much back story. It is discouraging. Everything that comes together must inevitably come apart and The Amazing Spider-man is no different. Peter Parker's time has passed and he bowed out as gracefully as possible.
I will not read 'The Superior Spider-man". What is Spider-man without Peter Parker? The fact of the matter is I am not in love with Spider-man, but the boy behind the mask. Peter was just a scared kid when he first put on his spandex suit. An awkward, nerdy boy who went unnoticed by the world. Tony Stark is a billionaire playboy, Reed Richards is a world-renowned scientist, Thor is literally a GOD! Peter was just a boy trying to get through school and keep his girlfriend happy. He was a genius that rarely got the credit he deserved. Someone who would later work in a think tank with the world's greatest minds spent most of his time behind a camera lens, working freelance for a newspaper that was edited by a man who hated him in and out of the mask. Sure, Peter wore plenty of hats in his life. He was briefly a science teacher at his old high school, assistant high school coach, et cetera. Just think about that for a moment. This man had a masters degree in biophysics, and he was a freelance photographer barely making enough money to make web fluids. That hardly seems fair.
Peter had more than his share of bad luck and short straws. He was constantly under attack, constantly worrying about those he loved, constantly disappearing for the sake of the city. And for what? What did Peter the man have that he didn't have to give up for Spiderman? Peter is the most selfless, sacrificing person in comic book history, and I don't care to hear any arguments on the matter. He has faced loss after loss, hurt after hurt, heartache after heartache and he kept going. The city he is sworn to protect considers him a menace, and he fought on for them. With his last breath, he still fought for them.
Peter was an outcast with an unfaltering sense of humor. Loyal to a fault and kind to anyone. He could have, at any point, killed the King Pin, Lizard, Morbius (especially Morbius) but that isn't Peter. He would only use the necessary amount of force to subdue his foes, petty criminals and super villains alike. Beneath Spider-man's thirst for justice beats Peter Parker's heart. A heart that beats for his family, his city, his country, his planet.
Without Peter, who would Spider-man be? You can read about it in 'The Superior Spider-man' if you'd like. Otto Octavius has swapped minds with Peter, and when his old, crippled body died, Peter died with it. Spider-man's legacy lives on, with Otto living the life he stole from Peter, but it isn't the same. Not to me. I hear in this new series Peter is still in there somewhere, as a ghost or a subconscious or some such. It may be a great success, it may be a flop. Who can tell so early? As far as I'm concerned, there is only one Spider-man and there will only be one scared, lonely boy behind that mask I'll care about.
Growing
"You probably shouldn't have told your parents about your blog."
This passing comment has been nagging at the back of my mind for most of the day. Not that I don't like that my mom reads my blog update by update, because I think that's awesome. It is a great way to communicate and share with her - as with all of you - what is going on in my life and my mind, keep her informed, keep our bonds tied. The thing that has been itching is the idea of self-censorship. There are times that I sit down to write, only to hit a block and throw out the entire work. I think to myself 'do I really want my mom to read that?' or something similar and second-guess myself.
After much thought, I have decided not to let it bother me. I am who I am, regardless of who is witness to it (minus holding in farts around other people, that is). This is specifically my space, my mind to share with you. I can't change the person I am, I can't please everyone. I love me, and if you don't care to hear my opinions, you're in the wrong space. Mom, if you call me because I wrote a swear word on my blog like you do on my facebook page... I don't know what I'll do. Probably sigh at you.
That's right, I swear. I swear a lot. I curse and I mutter hateful things to inanimate objects sometimes and I make terrible jokes and I dance when I'm bored. As long as I'm not hurting anyone, I think I have every right to do so. In the future, there's a chance I'll talk about sex and sexuality, drugs, religion, or any other in a plethora of touchy topics, right along side the usual whining and nerdy things. Do I care if my mother reads it? Not really. She's my mom, she over anyone has reason to want to know. ( Don't worry, Mom. I'm not addicted to heroin or working the streets. )
In other news, I've opened up a Facebook page for easier access to my updates. This way I can stop clogging up my friend's newsfeeds with links to the same page - this one! I'd also love to hear your feedback on my work thus far or suggestions for future works. What would you like to see? More Adultlescence? More movie reviews? More short stories? More what?
Join me at https://www.facebook.com/ItsMayAgain, and if any of you out there have any ability to do mare with web design than me...oh God, it's all so bland. Help?
This passing comment has been nagging at the back of my mind for most of the day. Not that I don't like that my mom reads my blog update by update, because I think that's awesome. It is a great way to communicate and share with her - as with all of you - what is going on in my life and my mind, keep her informed, keep our bonds tied. The thing that has been itching is the idea of self-censorship. There are times that I sit down to write, only to hit a block and throw out the entire work. I think to myself 'do I really want my mom to read that?' or something similar and second-guess myself.
After much thought, I have decided not to let it bother me. I am who I am, regardless of who is witness to it (minus holding in farts around other people, that is). This is specifically my space, my mind to share with you. I can't change the person I am, I can't please everyone. I love me, and if you don't care to hear my opinions, you're in the wrong space. Mom, if you call me because I wrote a swear word on my blog like you do on my facebook page... I don't know what I'll do. Probably sigh at you.
That's right, I swear. I swear a lot. I curse and I mutter hateful things to inanimate objects sometimes and I make terrible jokes and I dance when I'm bored. As long as I'm not hurting anyone, I think I have every right to do so. In the future, there's a chance I'll talk about sex and sexuality, drugs, religion, or any other in a plethora of touchy topics, right along side the usual whining and nerdy things. Do I care if my mother reads it? Not really. She's my mom, she over anyone has reason to want to know. ( Don't worry, Mom. I'm not addicted to heroin or working the streets. )
In other news, I've opened up a Facebook page for easier access to my updates. This way I can stop clogging up my friend's newsfeeds with links to the same page - this one! I'd also love to hear your feedback on my work thus far or suggestions for future works. What would you like to see? More Adultlescence? More movie reviews? More short stories? More what?
Join me at https://www.facebook.com/ItsMayAgain, and if any of you out there have any ability to do mare with web design than me...oh God, it's all so bland. Help?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Adultlescence: A Friend in Need
Do you hear that? Ahh, my friends, that is the sound of my furnace starting back up for the first time since Saturday morning. The sweet sound of warm air circulating into my apartment. Can you think of anything more beautiful than that?
For the past few days, I have been relying pretty heavily on my friends' mercy. I've been couch surfing since the weekend, and it has been quite the adventure, but I'm glad to be home. I know that I would have survived the cold here in my igloo just fine, there wasn't any danger to me or my kitties. There are many people out there in worse situations than the one I found myself in, and I'm not proud of my melodramatic reaction to the heat going out.
My friends are some of the most wonderful people you will ever have the luck of meeting. I love each and every one of them for so many reasons more than their willingness to help me out when I needed it. Everything from letting me sleep on their couches, lending me their bathroom for a hot shower and personal hygiene, going to lengths to repay old debts so I could fill the oil tank, letting me stay in their house for an afternoon off, showing me how to bleed the oil lines, or even giving me a snack when I'm looking down. In such a small way I needed support and I received it in such vast quantities. Not one of them would ever ask for repayment, they are glad to help knowing I would do the same for them.
I have a hard time asking for help. I have always had this need to prove that I am strong and independent. I can do it all on my own, I'm a big girl and I don't need to be babied. I can't always pull it off, though. I do need someone to lean on from time to time. I rely a lot on my friends - a lot more than they realize - but there is always going to be this one person who I can count on. At any time, on any day of the week, mountain or mole hill, my mom will always have my back.
Being a parent can't be an easy job. Everything becomes secondary to the needs of your child, and they don't even realize it. In a child's mind - and I know this, because I have one - they are truly the center of the universe and everything must bend to their will. I want, I want, I want, I need, I need, I need. It is virtually endless. Having a highly sensitive daughter like me could not have been any easier. The mildest upset could send me into a fit of tears and I hated telling anyone why. I still am pretty difficult to handle in that fashion. Hey mom, remember how I cried all through Christmas? Yeah, that happened. A couple of times.
I've talked to excess about what kind of guy my dad is, and I love him to pieces. I'll always be his little girl, though. There's something about the way my mother and I relate that I know she sees me for who I am now, not the five-year-old I was. Next to Skylie, Mom is the one who hears all of the nitty gritty, knows my faults, knows my dreams. I think every woman in the history of civilization has said it in some form or another, but my mom truly is my best friend.
When I called her Sunday night, I was low. I was in a bad space of monotonous paper work, chilly fingers and burnt coffee. I needed to talk. I didn't call to ask for anything, I just needed a sympathetic ear and some of my mother's love. I have an even worse time asking of things from her than anyone else. I want to prove to her, more than anyone, that the hard work she put into raising me has paid off. I am a strong woman now. I can handle my own shit, so to speak. When I can't do that, it is almost embarrassing in a way. Like in some form, I've let myself down. That maybe on some level I've let her down.
That's ridiculous. We all have our weak moments. We all fall down sometime. Mom is glad to help me, just as she helped me learn to tie my shoes or brush my teeth or wipe my own ass. But maybe she needs me too. With both of her children grown and gone, who does she have to dote on now? For twenty years, there was a kid at her heels, making requests, needing her. Now that we're gone, there's a lot of time and energy that once went to kids that just floats by. Maybe when I need her, she needs to be needed.
I used to fight her on everything. I don't need anything, I don't need help. I can do it. Maybe that's selfish. This week, she helped me out again when I was struggling. I couldn't fight her now. I am so grateful for not only this, but everything. I think the best thing I can do is let her know how much I appreciate her and everything she does for me.
Mom, you are the greatest. We come from a family of amazing, intelligent, strong women, all of whom have their own talents and abilities that makes us all stronger together as a family. I am so proud to be one among us. You are the glue that holds it all together. You are a moderator, a mentor, a hostess for everyone. In times of crisis, you shoulder your own pain and carry us all. Mom, you're a rock. If I turn out to be half the woman that you are today, I will be more successful than I could ever hope for. I love you.
Hey, other readers who aren't my mom. You should call yours. Like, now.
For the past few days, I have been relying pretty heavily on my friends' mercy. I've been couch surfing since the weekend, and it has been quite the adventure, but I'm glad to be home. I know that I would have survived the cold here in my igloo just fine, there wasn't any danger to me or my kitties. There are many people out there in worse situations than the one I found myself in, and I'm not proud of my melodramatic reaction to the heat going out.
My friends are some of the most wonderful people you will ever have the luck of meeting. I love each and every one of them for so many reasons more than their willingness to help me out when I needed it. Everything from letting me sleep on their couches, lending me their bathroom for a hot shower and personal hygiene, going to lengths to repay old debts so I could fill the oil tank, letting me stay in their house for an afternoon off, showing me how to bleed the oil lines, or even giving me a snack when I'm looking down. In such a small way I needed support and I received it in such vast quantities. Not one of them would ever ask for repayment, they are glad to help knowing I would do the same for them.
I have a hard time asking for help. I have always had this need to prove that I am strong and independent. I can do it all on my own, I'm a big girl and I don't need to be babied. I can't always pull it off, though. I do need someone to lean on from time to time. I rely a lot on my friends - a lot more than they realize - but there is always going to be this one person who I can count on. At any time, on any day of the week, mountain or mole hill, my mom will always have my back.
Being a parent can't be an easy job. Everything becomes secondary to the needs of your child, and they don't even realize it. In a child's mind - and I know this, because I have one - they are truly the center of the universe and everything must bend to their will. I want, I want, I want, I need, I need, I need. It is virtually endless. Having a highly sensitive daughter like me could not have been any easier. The mildest upset could send me into a fit of tears and I hated telling anyone why. I still am pretty difficult to handle in that fashion. Hey mom, remember how I cried all through Christmas? Yeah, that happened. A couple of times.
I've talked to excess about what kind of guy my dad is, and I love him to pieces. I'll always be his little girl, though. There's something about the way my mother and I relate that I know she sees me for who I am now, not the five-year-old I was. Next to Skylie, Mom is the one who hears all of the nitty gritty, knows my faults, knows my dreams. I think every woman in the history of civilization has said it in some form or another, but my mom truly is my best friend.
When I called her Sunday night, I was low. I was in a bad space of monotonous paper work, chilly fingers and burnt coffee. I needed to talk. I didn't call to ask for anything, I just needed a sympathetic ear and some of my mother's love. I have an even worse time asking of things from her than anyone else. I want to prove to her, more than anyone, that the hard work she put into raising me has paid off. I am a strong woman now. I can handle my own shit, so to speak. When I can't do that, it is almost embarrassing in a way. Like in some form, I've let myself down. That maybe on some level I've let her down.
That's ridiculous. We all have our weak moments. We all fall down sometime. Mom is glad to help me, just as she helped me learn to tie my shoes or brush my teeth or wipe my own ass. But maybe she needs me too. With both of her children grown and gone, who does she have to dote on now? For twenty years, there was a kid at her heels, making requests, needing her. Now that we're gone, there's a lot of time and energy that once went to kids that just floats by. Maybe when I need her, she needs to be needed.
I used to fight her on everything. I don't need anything, I don't need help. I can do it. Maybe that's selfish. This week, she helped me out again when I was struggling. I couldn't fight her now. I am so grateful for not only this, but everything. I think the best thing I can do is let her know how much I appreciate her and everything she does for me.
Mom, you are the greatest. We come from a family of amazing, intelligent, strong women, all of whom have their own talents and abilities that makes us all stronger together as a family. I am so proud to be one among us. You are the glue that holds it all together. You are a moderator, a mentor, a hostess for everyone. In times of crisis, you shoulder your own pain and carry us all. Mom, you're a rock. If I turn out to be half the woman that you are today, I will be more successful than I could ever hope for. I love you.
Hey, other readers who aren't my mom. You should call yours. Like, now.
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