deliberate provocation.

Day 21 | Clean | Snickers Are Still Under the Dryer | 8 Pounds Down; 58 to Go

In casual conversation, no daredevil tactics intended, I mentioned Michael yesterday. In passing, placing some context around another person, a place in time. I sat, looking at my mother, watching her expression carefully.

There was a brief hesitation on her face; a blink of recognition. But no conflict. Her brow didn’t even scrunch together.

I kept talking, moving it along. Smiling to myself.

And I later wondered in the night if dropping his name was a bit of a trigger in her night; bringing her back to sitting in the chair, next to my bedside and already 20+ pounds lighter in 3 weeks time from the moment I defied her—Michael and I aching to be alone and silly, and engorge ourselves into one other’s bodies—”it’s just a little snow, Mom.”

The defining line, the aftermath of the storm of the century—this clash between two rapidly moving masses of considerable proportion—mother versus daughter.

A bit of irony.

I don’t want to bring her back to that time. It’s not about payback. I don’t want to punish her. I know she’s blacked it all out anyway—the trauma—just like other raw, unfathomable moments that brought her human condition to excruciatingly unbearable.

But inside me, there’s a tiny voice that wants to talk to her tiny voice, on a different plain, an all-knowing spiritual one that miraculously provides understanding—perhaps, in one tiny whispered word.

I made the discovery of unresolved grief in February:

The impact of loss scars the heart and you go on living your life ’cause you’re young and have to conform and can’t fall apart and you don’t realize those wounds are still there, throbbing raw, the fibers of tissue meshing over that open gap of mess. You don’t realize you mask that pain with the alcohol thirty fucking years later, that there’s a reason why you drink until the TV and the stand it rests on becomes unhinged. You write and write and write. For seven years, straight, you do nothing but write and you’re told your writing has no depth or meaning. You keep writing because you’re still madly and blindly driven to it despite having lost all your assets and pockets are filled with nothing but dust and lint. You’re there writing, looking up the definition of a word online, fact checking, and you read, alcoholism is a well-documented pathological reaction to unresolved grief and glance down at the billionth line you just put in black and white and Jesus, the whole goddamn story comes clear.

 

 

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