Oh my. May the Lord help me remain open and not shut down or shut out all that is begging to surface. Hard to believe that after all this time, the feelings and reactions are so intense.
Reading mom's journal again—wanting to continue moving forward in looking back. My pattern has been to be intentional and intense about the process and then fall off again and do very little—let life demand, control overcome my time and space for a time.
At this moment, I am anxious—ill at ease, feeling guilt, pain, like the child I once was who was made to feel the weight of responsibility for so much. Yet as I read mom's anguish, frustration, loneliness and anger towards me—the disappointment that we, I was not there enough, I know there is truth to those messy words. Guilty as charged—not the daughter I was expected to be. I allowed life to consume me; all my time and I did not mark out time to be with my mom during her hardest times of her life; as she battled cancer. I did very little. Really I did what she did all her life with me, with us—we got whatever was left of her and once in a while she rallied and gave us a glimpse of the greatest parts of her. This all is harsh. At least seems so tonight. Reality. The sad thing is how much I never wanted to be like her in these bad ways and the truth is that I am, and likely in more ways than I even recognize. I have to wonder…how much of me I withhold from others in my life. Like she did.
Okay in this crazy process, I have understood that for many years I was buried behind a fortress of protection and that I lived much of life, certainly the tough stuff, numb and not feeling much of anything. I think this is a default still, at times when life presses in. Tonight I felt that childish sense of fight or flight, a need to retreat, avoid, or run as I was reading the tormented pages of my mom's journal. I made myself keep reading—dreading what was to come. The pages I was reading tonight were entries dated September and October of '99 and she did not die until September 17, 2000. I have a long way to go if I intend to read all of the pages.
This shouldn't be so hard—or should it? At some level I have anticipated the contents and avoided reading the journals for quite some time. Now, here I am somewhat at a loss as to what to do with these raw feelings. Ridiculous. Sad. However, I know I need to walk through the surfacing emotions and pain of the harsh realities.
What am I feeling? Not sure I know—hurt, shame, guilt, pity, compassion, love, a longing to make things right, and a mourning or sense of loss that there does not seem to be a way to do that. Regret.
I could do a much better job now that I see more clearly now that I feel the burden of the need. I could show up—all of me, my mind, heart, body, and soul and share in the reality of what mom was enduring and living. I could have done life with her and I am truly sorry I was not alive enough to do so.
I am sorry I did not love like Jesus loves. And now it is too late with mom. Sure I had moments but those moments are painfully not enough and very sad.
As if this is not enough to process, my mind and heart is being flooded with an urgency to inventory, to take heart of the relationships in my life I am "not showing up" to. Could it be Dad, Rob, my kids, my brothers, or others? Am I still not living present in the moment—wholly there with the ones I love?
How could I be so selfish, unfeeling and detached? A vision of the time surrounding my mom's death keeps playing in my head. One where I am the guest at a sad event, like I was watching a silent scene in someone else's life, cold detached, numb unable to grasp the emotion of the scene and unable to participate. Very unsettling, but lost, so I just want to sleep and shut it off. Yet—I now know this heart of mine needs to participate, be present, so I can move on, so I can live this and life with others.
"He made their hearts, so He understands everything they do." Psalm 33:15
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