My mother says many things as if they are for certain, prophecies that haunt me when they should be left alone as facts of her past.
“I couldn’t heal, I had kids. I couldn’t be proactive, I had kids. I couldn’t take care of myself, I had kids.” And there’s always the unsaid truth I don’t know if she’s ever admitted to herself but, “I couldn’t leave, I had kids.”
It makes me want to grab Andrew’s hands and beg him to promise me that he won’t let me disappear. Don’t let me disappear into the role. Don’t let me stop living. Don’t let me ever use our kids as an excuse.
I’ve been thinking recently about the time I was moving out of the city and was watering a plant and she stopped me to correct me. “I know how to water a plant.” I remember snapping at her, in front of Diane. I remember the look on her face. There are probably so many of those moments I don’t remember that have caused her anger and spite towards me. But I grew tired of being corrected. Even still, all these years later, I sometimes think she’d benefit from being reminded that she’s not raising me anymore. Everything is a correction. Control. So subtle, but there. It’s what I did to Avery. It’s what I’m trying not to do to Andrew. It’s what I do to myself.
I was so angry with her because she abandoned me. At the least, it had felt like her and I. But then I had no one. A harsh initiation into adulthood. But she wouldn’t let me be, and I’ve been fighting for it since. Just let me be. When she was here Monday I told her that she shouldn’t dismiss my messages as unhelpful just because they’re not what her audience would need to hear. She thinks I want to transcend. She doesn’t understand. But she loves an underdog story. It’s the only thing she’s ever belonged to.
What will my kids write about me? How I wouldn’t let go of the future?
I’m scared to be pregnant because I’m scared to give all of this up. My oasis. Doing whatever the hell I want. All the things I feel I’ve never appreciated enough. I’m still learning how to be happy. It feels like another chance when I imagine not being pregnant. Another chance to continue learning how to live, not just survive. to prepare. To get everything just right. to achieve the elusive carefreeness I’ve been trying to remember. I never had it. Another chance to perfect the dream mami. Another chance to be free.
When I imagine being pregnant, which is every living second of every day since my breasts became sore and sensitive, it feels completely unknown. I become unsure if I want that life. Simultaneously I feel like I’m using dream papi to get it, like I used the elven king. The foundation only looks to be full of cracks. It’s overwhelming. I’d love to have the experience. I just don’t know if I can become someone else. I feel like I’d have to. There are all these question marks that I suspect can only be answered by the love that appears on the other side.
For now, there’s nothing to do but zoom out and trust divine.
