The day I lost my mom was a day that something in me went with her. I lost a part of myself that I know I will never get back. I’m different now, in some ways it’s good. I’ve been hardened a little more to the harsh everyday world, I’ve only touched my deep things, only looking for connections with other people and places that are groundbreaking
However, I’m also not the same in that I don’t feel the way I used to for people. I’m sometimes frightened by how hard of a shell I’ve created to survive. I hear people talk about a sick parent, and part of me knows what that’s like, but the other part of me can’t sympathize with them anymore.
I guess you could say I’ve become a little heartless. But you should know how angry I still am to this day that the universe took something from me before I had a chance to say everything I’d held onto for so long. It was before I’d even mustered up the courage to re-establish a bond with my mom that wasn’t there for so long. Of course, when the opportunity arose, I felt like she was snatched from my fingertips.
No, of course, I don’t wish the pain I’ve felt on anyone – but I do wish that I could have what millions of young adults my age still get to; a mom. Losing her made me more independent, a little more courageous to do all of the hard things. But losing her made me mad also, I’m mad at everyone who still has their parents. And I know that’s wrong-I’m still struggling to find it in myself to not be mad at strangers passing by with their parents-or to not bite my tongue when I hear my friends talk about how annoying their parents are. But mostly, I’m trying to empathize with those older than me that are facing the reality that their parents will be gone soon.
I’m still dealing with the fact that my pain isn’t above anyone else’s, but I need people to know that it hurts all the same.