Just this past August, my mother entered Hospice. Then left, then was back In the hospital, and is now in a nursing home.
She was removed from my life when I was 12. But you see, up until that age, she was there. She was physically there for me, but mentally—not so much. Looking back I realized how dysfunctional that part of my childhood was. I’ve seen things I hope no child has to see. I’ve experienced overdoses. I’ve experienced cutting. I’ve experienced mommy running after you with a knife. I’ve experienced 911 calls and ambulances. I’ve experienced countless trips to see the inside walls of mental hospitals. What I’ve experienced most, though, is the raw emotion and backlash of witnessing that behavior. I’ve repressed every thought and every emotion toward it. I stored it as far back in my mind as possible, carrying out my life as if nothing ever happened, only for it to come back to me in nightmares.
Fast forward to August. As her next-of-kin, I ended up being responsible for her when she was admitted to the hospital. It turns out her lungs, along with other organs, were finally giving out. I expected it eventually, but no matter what you expect, it still hits you full force when it happens. For three weeks I was by her side every day, back and forth between my home and the hospital. When my mother refused treatment, I had no choice but to sign a DNR. I had no choice but to enlist her in hospice care, where evidently she wants to die. She’s always wanted to die. I’ve seen countless overdose incidents with her, and she’s always made it clear that if anything was to happen, she wants to die.
What boggles my mind is how someone could pass by life sitting at home in the dark, popping pills, wanting to die. For the longest time, I would blame myself. “Am I not what she wanted? Are we not good enough for her?” In all retrospect, I was good enough. I am good enough. She has so many inner demons that she just cannot battle, she never has been able to. I’m an incoming sophomore in college, transitioning into the next chapter of my life, while also dealing with a dying, drug-addicted mother on the side while trying to find my way, trying to figure out who I am, with this lurking fear in the back of my mind that I’m destined to end up like her.
But what not only I but many of us need to realize is that we are all in control of our paths in life. While our past and our family history may creep up on us from time to time, and sometimes even imply that we can become that, the key word here is can. We don’t have to. We are in control of ourselves. We unlock our own destiny and we decide our futures and our fate. Just because you may have a history, doesn’t mean it has to be your history or your future.
These past couple weeks have been a whirlwind of emotions as I tend to my mother’s side while also preparing for my own summer adventure. But it also is bringing back emotions I tend to just push right back every time they come up. As I face the fact that my absent mother is slowly passing away, and that I’m left here, facing a new chapter head on, questioning why I have to do this without her, I realize maybe it is time to face my emotions. I’ve always enjoyed the line “I am my mother on the wall” from Bon Iver's "Flume." But in the midst of all of this, I realized as terrified as I am, I can keep myself from being that. I can keep myself on track, I can work through this. Most importantly, I, am not my mother on the wall. And you are not the demons that may follow you either.
