Under Pressure -- Queen

I keep having these dreams where Mom comes to our family things and hangs out with all of us, no big deal, like nothing ever happened. And then...and then, right before I'm jerked back into consciousness, I look at her and exclaim, "You're dead!!!" And just like that, I'm awake again to face the day--or the wee morning hours--knowing that Mom is dead.

People like to tell me that it's my Mother visiting me while I'm asleep. Maybe. Or maybe my broken heart is aching for my mother. Maybe my mind conjures up stories while I'm asleep, something to entertain me while my body works on itself. I always marveled at the way my body soaked up a mild sun burn as a teenager, turning it into a golden brown tan by the following day. What I can't seem to wrap my mind around today is the fact that My Mother Is Gone. All I have left of her is memories. And if I can't convert those memories to written form for generations to come I will forever lose them to the world that is uncaring and undying.

I've tried a lot of things I never thought I would do. I go to the hospital every six weeks or so, and when I find myself walking those hallways, looking at the doctors talking quietly and seriously in the hallway of the pediatric surgery unit, I always remind myself that I'm still here, I should be grateful for everything that I have in this life.

But there's a part of me, deep down inside, that screams to be heard. Fuck your couch! I want my Mom back. 

I watch people when I'm out. I find myself thinking back to those times that I was out with Mom and would "sneak" an obscene amount of stuff I wanted into the cart while we were at wally world. I'm jealous of all those Moms and daughters shopping together, I smile at them, probably like a crazy person, when I see them at the store.

The thing is, I feel immense pressure to finish this book. It just isn't coming to me very easily. I try to explain to those who desire explanations that my writing comes from something within. Something inside me tells me what to write and when. It's not as simple as, write this book--finish it--do it now.

What the fuck?

Lower your fucking expectations of me, really.

Just be thankful that I'm getting better--that my broken heart and soul are healing.

I had a job interview. Did I mention that? They probably think I'm a fucking crazy person because I pointed out that I could fix and update--bi-weekly or monthly--their website that is bullshit constant contact propaganda sold to them at a flat rate to provide a website that they could care less about updating.

Now I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

There. I said it.

To be frank, I'm fucking surviving. I'm making it through each day with goals and routine because I can't possibly go on the way I was before. I'm reclaiming my space. Fuck your couch, mine is antique and I'm just about to pick out a new fabric for it. Who cares if I get this job or not? There's a whole world of people that don't give a shit what happens to you or your business, what do they care? That's right, they don't. Hire me and let me lend a helping hand and then, when I'm sure you can proceed, I'll move on,

I try to live each moment of the day considering the possibility of the worst scenario of a person's life stretching before me as if it were my own. Maybe that's pessimistic. Maybe it makes you want to slap me around. All I know is that the longer I live, the more simple things really become.

I used to be in awe of how Jesus could turn the other cheek. Now I realize that he was having the best time ever throwing people off their game by not reacting the way they expect you to. I can handle that. Go ahead, take my mother. You can't break me.

I break stuff.