A Mother for me

A dear friend suggested that I write about what it’s like being a motherless daughter...to tell about a life...a view...of what the world looks like and feels like, living without a mother. My mother lost her life at the age of 29. She was shot and killed as she was closing the store at which she worked. What I have gained from my loss is the idea that all life is sacred. Everyone has a story to tell, and we must be still and listen with our hearts. We all have the ability and the responsibility to bring happiness, peace, and understanding into the lives of others. We were not put on this earth to live alone and in silence. The sharing of a heart is the greatest gift of all. Finding one’s voice and being able to share the hurt, opens the door for healing to begin. I have lived in silence for too long....my healing is just beginning.

I often wonder what she thought about as she felt her life slipping away. My mother was my friend, she was my life...she was my everything. When she died, part of me died with her. Young people are
supposed to live and grow and mature and lead wonderful lives and then die when they are old and gray. Young people aren’t supposed to die when they have small children who depend on them. Mothers aren’t supposed to die. People aren’t supposed to have guns to use to rob and kill. All I knew at the time, was the fact that Mama wasn’t around. When I would ask where my mother was everyone would say, “She’s gone to be with Jesus.” I didn’t understand. I had no idea why she had not come home.

When my father picked me up to look into the casket...I saw a stranger. It sort of looked like Mama, but only a little. So I asked "Who is that?" Daddy told me it was Mama, but I didn’t believe him. So I walked away...I walked away from my everything. If I would have known that the stranger was my mother...I would have had them bury me with her.

We went to our trailer to get some of our belongings. It was quiet, and Mama wasn’t there. I didn’t want to get anything out, this was where I lived. "Where is Mama?" I asked. I went to the bedroom and looked around. I saw my mother’s shirt, and I touched it, put it to my cheek, and it was so soft. This was Mama’s shirt. I began to cry, "I want my Mama." My chest felt like it was being crushed, it was so heavy, and I couldn’t breathe. It was the most horrifying experience of my life. I did not know what was happening to
me, and if Mama was with Jesus then I wanted to be with Jesus, too.

I had a jealousy in my heart toward mothers and daughters, and I guess you could say that it bordered on hate. I didn’t want to look at a mother and daughter, but I couldn’t get away from them. At the same time that I was sickened to see them, I would imagine what it would be like if I had a mother. When I was sad, she would hold me and tell me everything would be all right. That’s all I ever wanted. I just needed a mother. Little girls are supposed to have mothers. Little girls are supposed to wear their mothers old shoes, and dress up in their clothes. When a mother hears her child cry, she knows exactly what’s wrong.
She is connected to that child, and that child is connected to her. They are not two, but one.

Sometimes I would dream about my mother. She didn’t really die, she was just lost and she finally found her way home. I would cry in my sleep even though I was happy in my dreams. It’s strange that a person can look normal from the outside, and be so sad and lonely on the inside. When depression grabs you and pulls you down you have to fight to make it release it’s hold...that is, if you are strong enough to fight. It’s like a storm that rages constantly in the soul, but only visible when you are in the eye of the storm looking out. All you see is darkness. All you feel is fear. And you know that no one will come to save you. The storm doesn’t kill you, but you wish that it would. It just rages on, and it never lets you rest. Some people are able to sense the pain and loneliness of others. Perhaps they have had storms of their own and can see what is raging within the heart of another. Maybe that is what a kindred soul is. Maybe ones can sense the pain of another no matter how great or how mild, because they have seen the darkness of a storm. I have seen it...I remain there. A darkness, a fear, and a loneliness have covered
me, consumed me and blinded me. I am weak. I remain invisible...trapped in a deadly storm. I have been fighting to loosen depressions hold on me...perhaps it is a fight fought in vain.

I have been waiting for God to answer my prayers. Help me not hurt anymore. Please, give me peace. I
don’t want her death to consume me so. I fight with myself, and I am ashamed of myself. If my mother could see me, would it break her heart to know that I’ve been praying for another mother, a living mother. Dear God, if I cannot have a mother, then just let me imagine. Unless you are willing to turn back time, or just let me sleep and dream forever. Please, let me dream forever. I try not to dwell on things that I cannot change, but the death of my mother has held on to me. It torments me. I am afraid that her death will kill me in the end, and at the same time, I think I would embrace that death. I would like to go within my imagination and stay in the dream that I have created...a dream that my mother occupies.

As a child, to live, and wonder, and be afraid was more than I could bear. All types of things run through the head of a child who is afraid and alone. I had no one to blame. Where was the person who killed my mother? I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to cause them pain. I wanted someone to hate. I realize now that hate only brings more misery to a troubled soul. Hate, fear, and loneliness are a lethal combination.
Desperation and sorrow only make things worse. God knows all things. He heals the broken hearted. Why hasn’t my broken heart been healed? Why do I keep hurting?

Sometimes, even now, I imagine what it would be like to have a mother. I didn’t know much about being a daughter when I was six, but I have learned from my loss. I would always take care of her. We would talk about everything, and I would never disappoint her. I get irritated when a daughter doesn’t realize the value of her mother. If they could only know what I know, and feel what I feel, they would realize how blessed they are. The things they take for granted are the things that I would treasure. Do these people
not realize what a precious gift that they have been given? There must be a mother out there who has a void in her heart that I could fill.

I remind myself each day that I must not forget my mother. Memories fade somewhat, but the love I have for her never dies. Is it wrong for me to wish I had a another mother? I would want my children to have someone to hold them in my absence. I cry for a mother, but no mother cries for me. I pray a mothers prayer for my children, but there is no mother to pray for me. I do not belong to anyone. I feel unwanted.

I am a child trapped inside of a woman. I live, I look, I speak, and I breathe like a woman, but behind my false exterior is a forgotten child. She is the one who is crying, waiting, fearing, and wishing for her nightmare to end. I wish that I could hold her and tell her I love her, but she is afraid of all who come near. She is so small, and she is alone. Even as I age, she remains the same. She is trapped, surrounded by the walls that I have built to keep her from harm. I want to protect her...I feel her pain. The child in me has her heart open, and she is waiting for that perfect mother. She is waiting for a mother who will hold her and protect her. She is waiting for a mother who will never come.

If life could be what we desire then it seems as if things would be much easier. I would not wish for a life full of complications. But God knows. I have no right to question His perfect plan. I do my best to trust in Him, and I want to do His will. It is hard to put trust in what you cannot see. But I know He is here, for if He were not, then I would have never made it through.

I don’t know how to explain what is in my heart. I need a mother. I am trapped in a vicious cycle of wishing, searching, finding and holding onto those who I think can be a mother to me. I have developed a rather extensive collection. A mother has wisdom and offers love, compassion, understanding, kindness,
and hope to her child. In my mind and heart, I have created this perfect picture of what it is like to have a living mother, but in that picture, I am a child. I want to go back and have a mother who will pick me up when I fall and tell me that she loves me. My heart would have healed long ago if I would have been able to find someone to love me like my mother had loved me.

Why can’t thing’s be the way that seems right? I
have been on the outside of an existence looking in ...and existence between mothers and daughters...watching...waiting... longing for the chance to live and be happy with a mother of my own. We always want what we don’t have...we place those wants in a realm that is far above fact. I have been reaching for the unreachable. I know the importance of having a mother because I have lived without one. Being in need causes one to grasp the importance of what having that need fulfilled would mean. To want...to need...to have a hunger that cannot be sated is to reach for a dream and it remain unfulfilled.

I have dreamed of having a mother...a mother of my own. There is a nourishment that is provided to a child that only a mother can give...the nourishment is love...motherly love. That’s what I hunger for. I don’t remember my mother holding or hugging me. I don’t remember her saying, "I love you." I know that she must have said and done those things...I just can’t remember. I want to know what it’s like to have a mother again. I need to know what it’s like to be held safely in a mother’s heart.

I am starving. If a child is starving for food, wouldn’t she do anything to make the pain go away? Even try to imagine it away. I have tried to imagine away the pain that comes to a child’s heart when there is no mother there to love, and protect her. How long does it take for a heart to heal? It’s been twenty three years since my mother’s death and the pain is still as sharp as it was when her death was new. I have seen people who have experienced the death of a loved one and still be able to live a normal life without them. I want to know the secret. Why can’t I let go?
I want to have a mother to talk to. I long for the comfort that only a mother can offer. I long to say "Mama, I love you" and know that someone will respond. I don’t want my mothers’ memory to cease to exist...I just need the pain of her absence to lessen.

My heart has shattered into ten thousand pieces and I am trying to put it back together...there is so much emptiness...I will need many mothers to fill it. I have love in my heart to give...the love that belong to my mother and she isn’t here to receive it. My heart is full and I long to give that love away, but no one will take it. I keep the unused love in my heart, but love was meant to be shared...not kept to oneself. Is there something so wrong with me that the love of a mother will always be out of reach?

I stand on the outside, looking in, I see a world full of mothers and daughters...but yet, that existence can’t be mine. I have found that as I stand there looking in, certain ones have opened the window to this existence, and knowing that I don’t belong, have reached out and offered me a portion...a portion of what it must be like to have a mother. I find myself clinging to the hands of these mothers....I don’t want to let go. I fear that if I let go, then those precious hands will never return to offer another portion. Perhaps I am pushing them away by my inability to let go. I need a mother...any mother.

I hold a love in my heart for all mothers...I love them as much as my own dead mother. Sometimes, I think I love them more, but their hearts are already full...there is no room for me, but I am drawn to them...I need to give them what I hold in my heart. I want to be a good daughter to all mothers. What I know about my own mother has been blurred by what I have imagined about her. I don’t know her...she is a stranger. Happiness eludes me...it was not meant for me. My truth, which is a lie to others, is that if I had a mother...I would never be sad again. Mothers make things better...even if they are not our
own. If all mothers could see past my exterior...they would see the child in me who continues to cry...reaching out through the darkness...heart open ...arms outstretched....waiting for a mother who will
hold her in her heart and never let her go.