I've done a lot of talking about her,

but not much showing, and that is because my pictures of her are few, and none of them are digital. But my uncle showed me his high school yearbook and flipped to the senior section- and there she was; younger, sure, but with the same smile I see when I close my eyes and see her. And so, I snapped a picture of a picture, and did a little cropping, and here it is, albeit grainy:

She was 18 years old here, in 1977.

Beautiful, huh?

Just for kicks, here's one of my senior pictures:

because lately, there's been a lot of letters...what's one more?

Mom,
I wrote you a letter on your birthday, and so I think it is only fair that I write you a letter on mine, too; after all, it is because of you that I am physically here. You gave me the greatest gift a human can give another: life. Moreover, you promised to love me, no matter what that entailed. Incidentally, that entailed giving birth (sorry about that tail bone...), changing poopy diapers, and a whole lot of laundry. So thanks!

This was my seventh birthday without you, and Mom, it's gotten so much easier. I feel like- wait I know- that you would be so proud of the people I love and who love me back without reserve. They make everything so much easier. But that doesn't mean that I breezed right through. In the morning, I thought about how 19 years ago, you were in labor, maybe rushing to the hospital, or eating ice chips while Dad tried to make jokes. Around lunchtime, I thought how 19 years ago, you were preparing to meet me. And that night, I thought about how you might have been spending this evening 19 years ago gazing at me, wondering who I would become and what I would do, and of course, it made me sad that you aren't here to see the answers to those questions. I'd be a poet, a coffee-drinker, a snuggler. I'd grow into a God-fearing, sensitive, chattering woman. And I don't wonder, but rather I am certain that you would be proud if you could have caught a glimpse of that ebony-haired baby 19 years down the road, because 19 years later, though I didn't have you, I had more than I could ask for. I had a mother who drove here and bought me french fries and yogurt and left me with a plate of brownies (if that's not love, then I don't think love exists.) I had a group of friends who sneaked into my room and filled it with balloons just because. And on my birthday, I had two best friends who couldn't wait until morning; instead, they came in at 2 a.m. with a present that caused joy to run down my face.

Mama, soon it will have been eight years without you. It occurred to me that in three years, I will have lived as long without you as I did with you, and that is startling. I imagine there might be a day when my heart realizes this and lets go, stops shaking at the thought of a birthday or a Christmas or a bad day without you. I'm sure it will happen soon. I am certain that one day I will officially have moved on, and I won't need to write any more blog posts or short stories about losing you. My friends won't have to secretly roll their eyes when I talk about missing you. They won't have to think, "Man, you were eleven. Enough already." I will think of you only with happy thoughts, and I won't find myself choked up when I talk about you. I most definitely won't ache for your touch, your voice, your "Happy Birthday."

Sunday wasn't that day and today isn't, either.

All this isn't to worry you. I carry on quite well; I smile and I laugh and I live life. I giggle incessantly with my friends while I still can and I make bad decisions and I praise the Lord for He has been so good to me! I sing and I dance and I talk too loudly in the library. I bounce around and I ramble and I do all of these things with the joy Christ has given me back.

But this letter is to say that I didn't forget that you were around. I didn't forget that 19 years ago, you gave me life and chestnut curls and an outrageous laugh. I am still very much your child, and I wouldn't give that up for the world. I carry you around, even though that brings the ache sometimes. But, Mom, I don't mind. I am certain a day when you've faded will come, but I don't want it to. I want to remember the woman who bore me, who wrapped me and carried me around, who kissed me on the forehead and declared her love. I hide that love in my soul, and should that day come when I forget, all I have to do is glance into the mirror, and for a moment, I can see you, smiling back at me.

And for that, I thank you.

Love always,
Lindsey

"What would you think of me now? So lucky, so strong, so proud? I never said thank you for that."

It's a line from a song that got me thinking today on my drive home from Georgia. The whole song reminds me so much of my mother, especially that particular line. I get hung up on it all the time: how different I am from when she was here. It hurts so much to know that if my own mother saw me on a street or in a store, she probably wouldn't recognize me, and not because of anything dramatic. I've simply grown up. I'm not the little girl she knew. Being around other my friends and their mothers like I have been for the past few days always causes me to remember that my situation is so different, that my "mother" isn't my mother, and to dream up "what-ifs" as I'm lying there trying to conquer some sleepless night in an unfamiliar bed. So pardon me for approaching the subject again, for examining it closely and picking it apart, and for writing about it- I know it gets old.

But this song. It's really sort of spectacular, and it fell through my musical cracks, but I rediscovered it on a lost (now found!) cd while I was road tripping this week. I listened to it over and over, as I often do, meditating on the lines, and this one stood out. Of course it made me think of her- duh. But it wasn't just her- it made me think of my father, too, and for that matter, all of them. Each of my siblings has had his or her own share of obstacles, some brought on by themselves, some overcome, and some that are still around. Everyone but me- all of my issues either are or come from dealing with everyone else's issues. I'm not sure if it's the role I was born for, or I just saw this need when I was kid and rose up to fulfill it. I am the hope, the maverick, the  fighter. I am the one who defied the odds, who turned out right, who went to college instead of jail. It hasn't been easy; everyone else's problems have become mine as I struggle to prove them all right, because after all, I am the one who can and will be someone, and that's what they're holding out for. I know that it's my job to keep the peace and smooth the trouble away, all while giving them something to be proud of.

I'm sounding rather haughty, I know. But hear me out. This is the thing: this a real role in my family, and I got it, whether it was always meant to be mine or I was pushed into it by guilt and shame. But how did I learn? How did I know what to do, and what not to do? Who to trust, and who to run in the opposite direction from? What kind of person I should be instead of who was easiest to be?

I learned it from them. All of them.

I know I've said it so many times, but my mother was an outstanding person. I know I tend to look back through a lens that is tinted with longing and pain and "missing out," though, and she had problems. She succumbed far too easily, and hid it for far too long, and tried to be far too many things instead of admitting she couldn't. She stayed with my father when she probably shouldn't have and went on for years like everything was just fine when everything was all wrong. She should have found the strength to confess, to stop, and gotten everyone out of the whole situation, because that was her job, instead of the cooking and ironing and cleaning and carpooling that she took on. She lost herself in all of that, and I lost her, too, because of it. But there were so many good parts and good memories and maybe they outnumber the bad, or maybe I'm imagining, but it doesn't matter. But she taught me how to laugh and chatter and get along. And in her death, she taught me more than she could ever hope. Because I didn't succumb, and I didn't hide, and I did get out.

In the same breath, my father, in all of his selfishness, has taught me what it means to love. I've talked before about my father's  love for me, but I've realized that that's not for me to worry over. I wanted so much to form that ideal relationship with him, where he really is the parent and I really am the child, but it's never going to happen, and once I accepted that, I could get to forming a real relationship with him. And so, his mere presence in my life has taught me all about love and forgiveness. According to 1 Corinthians 13:5, love "keeps no record of wrongs." So then, I chose to love my father, forgetting all of the hurt he has thrown my way, or at least trying. I answer my phone when he calls and visit him when I come home and let him into my life. It's not easy or fast; in fact, it still carries a lot of tension and pain as I open those doors. Ignoring him was incredibly easy to do, but after awhile, I missed him. So, I'm doing my best, and I have to assume he's doing his, because that's what it means to love. Does he stills hurt me? Yeah. But that's okay. It's alright.

And all of them. All four of them- all my older siblings- had dreams, I suppose. They all forgot them or lost them or threw them away as they discovered things that made life seem easy: alcohol, prescription pills, cocaine, marijuana, theft, lies. Things that got them by for the moment and covered the pain for a little while, but all too soon, it resurfaced and they would need more and more and more of their chosen vices to stifle it again. Some of them have overcome, have beaten it, and my pride overflows when I think of it. Some of them haven't, but I have hope for them, that they can do it. Sometimes I just want to scream, "If I can do it, you can do it, because I have to do with all of YOU!" But that wouldn't help. now would it? I've tried to have relationships with them, but it adds toxicity to my life, and they use me, and that I won't stand for, because I am trying to become something here. But I love them all the same. They've taught me about perseverance and standing up again and that sometimes, you're just barely hanging on, and everyone is going to find themselves there. They taught me that you can let go and fall into the canyon, or you can pull yourself over the ledge, as hard as it may be, even if you might fall down again eventually. They've taught me to try. When i wasn't sure if I could do some of the things I've done, like move into acceptance over Mom, or forgive Dad and build a relationship with him, or even move away and enroll in a large university, I looked to the things they've done and said, "Okay. I can do it, too."

And so, I am me, and I decided to be this person, to say no to what nearly everyone else in my family has said yes to, but you should know that who I am is largely because of who they are and what they showed me. Their lives seem messed up to so many, examples of shame and wrongdoings, but I can see the beauty in struggle. They are wonderful, beautiful people, and I am so lucky and strong and proud because of them.

I quoted 1 Corinthians 13, the "love" chapter that every knows. But beyond the definition of love is another verse that delineates my life as I discover what being an adult is all about:


^"11When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. ¹²Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."


I'm learning to forgive. To love. And to learn.

running.

What is it about this place that makes it so much harder? Why does it seem so much more evident, when I am sure that I am having the time of my life? What are these feelings, and why now?

It's raw pain. Grief. Honesty. It's remembering things I worked so hard to forget because I have to tell it all over again. I have to clue people in; I have to explain. And forgetting had become so easy, something that became part of my everyday routine. Lori made it easier to pretend that there was never anyone else. But there is and there was, and here I am faced with her face again and again as I tell my story, and talk about how it felt, and am forced to deal with how it still feels.

Having this best friend who directs these questions at me, who looks me in the eye and demands to know why I'm doing what I'm doing and why I'm who I am doesn't make it any easier. I've been running for years, afraid of what my happen if I slowed down to take a breath, and I've realized now that once you slow, it's very hard to get going again. Once you tell it and uncover all of those repressed memories, it's hard to shove them back into the back of your mind and go about your business.

It's hard when she should have been celebrating half a century, but I was simply documenting what I remembered of her 42nd year.

It's hard when I have a friend whose relationship with her mother makes me so jealous that I'm certain the desire in my heart will never lose it's wanting, it's aching.

It's hard when I long to call her and discuss these feelings, and how I'm growing up, and how it's scary.

It's hard when I just miss her. And why do i? Why was it so much easier before I came here? I suppose it's a plethora of reasons: this new time period in my life, all of these news friends for whom I must give explanation after explanation, the relationships of other people and their parents thrust in my face. And it's not their faults; it's my fault for letting it get to me, for pushing it down all of these years, for refusing to talk about it, and this is what happens. My heart hardens, and I am certain nobody will ever understand. Nobody's been here; nobody knows what it feels like to want someone so badly that it consumes your thoughts, filling them with what-ifs and could-have-beens and maybe-one-days. I'm sure someone does.

Someone does, right? Anyone? Does anyone understand that feeling? Does anyone run? I've been running for so long, and I have a feeling that if I don't slow down soon and handle this, it's going to take over my life and ruin relationships and step in before I can start to build anything worth having.

This is what I remember,

from your last birthday.

I remember that Nana cooked enchiladas because you asked for them.

I remember you were wearing jeans, keds, and a red and white checked sleeveless shirt.

I remember standing on the stairs, and how you had your head leaned back on the chair, and how we were talking, and you turned and smiled at me.

That's all I remember because it was eight years ago, and I didn't know I was supposed to be savoring it so. But they're lovely memories.

Happy Birthday.

Mom,

How do I start off a letter to someone that I've missed everyday for nearly eight years? To someone who won't ever even read the letter? To someone who took a little piece of my heart, a fraction that I'll never get back?

Hi, mama.

Happy Birthday.

Wow, you'd be 50! That's half a century. I'm sad you never got there, but I'm determined not to make this about what you didn't accomplish. After all, 42 is quite the accomplishment. Not at all what we strive for, but a milestone we'd all like to reach. Lasting 42 years in this tumultuous world is a lovely achievement. See, mom? I've accepted it. I can joke about it. You instilled in me the traits it would take to be able to do so.

I'm a lot different than I am last time you saw me. I imagine that just as you are frozen in my mind as a beautiful, wise lady with crow's feet and laugh lines and a youthful shine in her eyes, I am frozen to you as an eleven year old little girl with frizzy curls, thick glasses, and buck teeth. (C'mon, mom. You can admit that I wasn't the most blessed child). But, I can look back and see what you saw in me- those characteristics of the fighter I would be, those things that came from you. You saw the girl who could chatter all day long, making friends as she went. The one who couldn't dance or sing but did both everyday anyway. The persistence, the perseverance, the fight. I needed those attributes. But physically, I am not sure you would recognize me. I just look different- grown up. I grew up, Mom, without you.

The hardest part about losing you was everything. You were my world. Your mistakes were nonexistent in my eyes, although I did toy with idea of being angry at you; mostly, I just missed you. At first, I almost felt oddly lucky. Everyone was paying such attention to us, and after all, we'd had a fight that day. I didn't even care that you were gone. About a week later, I realized that I had lost the most important person in my life. And I started crying.

I wouldn't stop for three years.

Mom, it was so hard. I wish that my story went on to say that everyone stepped up, but most people had lost their footing. Dad forgot that he was supposed to be taking care of us half the time, and left us in the care of Mary Anne. I don't know, Mom, if you would have liked her. She was crazy and psychotic and she made my life a living hell wuite often, but she had some good attributes. Give me some time, and I'm sure I could remember what they were. After I got over the initial shock of how quickly Dad was moving on, I relished having a mother again. I soaked it up. But her craziness got in the way and it made me miss you even more. You were a little crazy, but you loved me enough that it didn't matter.

One Halloween night, Laine finally saw how the woman was truly a little insane, and she told her to leave. But Dad was in jail and so that left me and Emilee with a nanny named Robin and broken hearts. But, Mom, you shouldn't worry. Because Chris and Lori stepped in.They picked up the slack, and after awhile, I moved in with them. And I think you'd proud of what they did with me. They put me in public school and taught me all the important things about life, like how to treat people kindly and have a relationship with the Lord and clean a bathroom and save money and get to where I'm going. Next time you see them, say thank you. They did the most beautiful job; sometimes I wonder if maybe they did a better job than you would have, but then again, I have faith that you would have stepped up, too. But I guess I'll never know. I appreciate the way things work out; I thank God everyday for taking you, and I know that sounds crazy, but MOm, it was the right thing. And so you should know, I've accepted it.

That doesn't mean I don't miss you. Sometimes the ache is so deep that my chest actually hurts and it makes my throat hurt and I have to breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating and then, I have to lay very still in bed to control the breathing. It gets rough, sometimes. But mostly, I'm okay. I think of you every single day, though. I don't want you to think you've been forgotten, because you haven't. I long to talk to you, even if just for an hour, to hear your voice, and to know what you think about all this. I want you to hold me, to rub my back, to murmur soothing things when I've had a hard day. When I see my friends with their moms, I get this wistfulness that consumes me. It's gotten easier over the years, but that's still the hardest part: watching everyone else have (and take for granted) what you'll never ever be able to get. Sometimes I fantasize that this was a trick, that maybe you were kidnapped, or that you ran away, but that at any time, you'll return home. But I don't suppose that would solve anything, just create more mess, huh? I guess things worked out for the best.

Mom, I love you. I am proud to say that I am a lot like you. I can make people laugh, and I take care of other people, sometimes. I am a good listener, and oh, I love to talk! I have your eyes, I think, and I love it. I love being like you.

Happy Birthday.

Linds