Mother's Day Musings

"Was in the Mother's Day card aisle tonight," my good friend texted me,
"there's still a big opportunity in that aisle for us to make some money... that's all I'll say about that."

Her mother is an addict she hasn't seen, except for court appearances, in years.

She knows my father was a homeless alcoholic. She showed up with a bag of lollipops and a hug when I got  confirmation that he was dead and had died more than a year prior.

There was no card for that or for her version of Mother's Day.

There are some things that are hard to articulate quickly. There are thorns that grow in the stem of daily experiences that live on the underside of skin and wound organs.

There are invisible tattoos that get carved into bone marrow and are never seen, but felt.

I text my friend back with suggestions for the card aisle.

Maybe a utensil section to poke our eyes out with a fork while reading the sweet cards? Maybe a table to rest the knife we take out of the back?

We feel betrayed and stabbed by the syrup sweet or sentiments we can't sign our names to without lying.

We can be sarcastic and biting and honest with one another, not because we are jerks or in denial, but because sometimes that's required. Merited. Appropriate. Honest.

We aren't looking for sympathy or pity from other people, for soft eye looks - just someone who relates and gets the void.

There are some holidays we might not want to get out of our pajamas and put on a face. Some holidays we might need to make a box of pancakes even though we're the only one serving, eating and cleaning up afterwards.

There are no cards or flowers for certain occasions.

But they happen and are lived with and through.

There can be days that feel painful and filled with longing or wonder about what might have been if what actually was had been a completely different and fictionalized version of our existence.

But isn't.

Or sometimes even is.

This year, I had a good Mother's Day time getting pedicures and having brunch. I was with my mother, sister and sister-in-law as well as her step-mom and my niece and my own daughter. 

My sister and I, each brought orchids for everyone, though we hadn't discussed it or planned it in advance. That seemed so sister like.

My tween daughter bathed me in gifts and attentiveness and it felt fantastic. I felt loved, seen and appreciated and lucky.

I'm grateful for that experience this year on Mother's Day. It's rare. I don't take it for granted. It's not always been a given.

There are years I wasn't talking with my sister or my mother. Many of them. Others where I was talking but got so anxious or anguished either because I stuffing the truth or because, if I didn't, I risked destroying and straining relationships.

I wasn't sure what getting healthy and staying connected even meant or if both were possible with myself never mind with family members.

I'd feel despairing or as though I were disappearing when putting on a happy face. Or, I'd feel miserable when boycotting a holiday because doing so made me feel left out, difficult or mean. Even though the reasons I was upset were valid and serious and real - to me - but maybe not to others.

Painful.

Pain FULL. Full of pain.

Tensions don't always abate or change or lift. It might ebb and flow or change from year to year.

Or not.

It might remain consistently bad or be volatile - up and down.

Sometimes people don't ever speak again and that includes parents and children.

Some people don't recover from addictions or are so toxic it is never safe to be near them or to bring children in their vicinity.

I'm close to fifty and still struggle every single Father's Day to varying levels and degrees.

Half of the battle is the reality of the situation but the other half is the hiding of the grief, sorrow, difficulty or details.

The feeling that others are having some more positive or healthy or loving experiences.

The shame that some occasions and relationships can't be scripted on a greeting card, stamped and sent.

There are no words, clever, poetic, honest or appropriate that can always be exchanged with loved ones we might love but not be in relationship with.

So, to share a joke with my warrior friend is healing. To go back and forth about what we really think or feel or might wish to write, is nurturing, loving and honoring.

Of ourselves.

Of one another.

Of reality.

***

How do you handle, get through or approach days like Mother's Day? What do you celebrate and struggle with?

P.S. Glasses from art installation on trauma by author and Margaret Bellafiore.