I should maybe write about the thing so painful I never allow myself to even write about it. I barely even mentioned it to my therapist.
My mom is homeless and mentally ill. Months ago a motel called the police on her, probably because she became violent. I've tried calling her for months, but her phone goes straight to voicemail, which is full. I don't know where she is.
WIthout medication, it's impossible, and unsafe, to help her. I just hope she has her basic needs met and is avoiding any situation where she'd be in a crowded shelter.
I feel like I may have lost her. The last time I was able to reach her in November might have been the last time. I left voicemails that just said hi, I love you, hope you're okay.
It's not a new feeling. I've always felt in limbo with my mother. She's always occupied a strange existence somewhere between alive and dead, a confusing gray area in which she is there, somewhere, but not really present, not really able to be a mother, or even a person really. She's trapped in a nightmare of her own making mixed with traumas and chemical imbalances that no one can fix, and she doesn't let us anyway.
I hate it, but I sort of accepted it. It was necessary in my twenties to change my phone number and not tell her my address, but I still checked in with her to confirm she always had food and a roof over her head. Last we talked she said she had what she needed. If she is still on this earth, I hope that's still the case.
I'll forever wish I had a mom in the way other people do. But it's just one of those things. That's my biggest hurt, but then, it's all I've ever known. She is what she is. And no one lives forever. When she dies, at least there will be closure. At least her suffering will be over.
9:54 a.m. - 2020-04-02