When you were a kid did you ever attest to a truth by saying “cross my heart and hope to die.” Okay, maybe I am dating myself but I haven’t used or thought of that phrase since I was a child standing before my mother when I was getting blamed for something I did not do. It’s a horrible phrase to use — especially for a child — yet growing up where I lived, we all said it frequently when we needed someone to believe us.
This morning as I was reflecting on the painful thoughts I continue to write after losing Amy, I wanted to stand before God and the universe and preface every word I write with that phrase as a testament to the pain in my heart. BTW: don’t feel sorry for me, just believe me.
Life teaches us to make lemonade out of lemons and to admire the strong who survive. Am I a survivor? Yeah, I guess so, but I have no hopeful words to chirp about the continued life lessons I am learning after the worst thing that could happen, happened in my family.
I find I get so frustrated with myself that it remains such a challenge to re-engage with the world around me. Will the day ever come when I no longer find it necessary to throw up the poisonous pain of grief on this blog? Should I be chirping more about my wonderful Amy and the lessons I have learned from her? It is true that Amy taught me amazing lessons, but to revisit my past hurts. Cherishing the memories, which I do, does not help me to find light in my grief.
This path I find myself on has many potholes and land mines. Who travels easily without a child? I am not proud that I am unconvinced that time is healing. Do size small hangers make you cry? How about finding evidence in a closet or an old handbag that your child was once here? Do I fucking cherish those size small hangers and that receipt which contains some of Amy’s favorite foods? Or a recipe that she sent to me and I was disinterested in at that time? Now am I supposed to make every one of the recipes I find “in memory” of Amy? I fucking hate that my daughter is a “memory.” Oh wait how unattractive for a mother to use such foul language but trust me sometimes “fuck” is the only word which applies when I cross my heart and hope to die as a testament to my current life as a grieving mother.
Always remembering Amy.