A Chapter of My Soul

It's hard to believe that it's been 3 years. Some days it seems like just yesterday while others feel like it's been an eternity. I've started to notice that the looming inevitability of this anniversary brings a lot of anxiety. There is that pang of regret that creeps into consciousness from time to time and that is one that I just can't seem to tolerate. I guess it's the "what if" element that hits my psyche and must be quickly pushed away for fear of where it may take me. I don't like to live my life with an ounce of regret but to say this predicament left me regret-free would be a lie. I don't know if that is just part of the puzzle; a piece of what anyone in this aftermath feels. All I know is that I don't like it and use as many tools as are available to me to convince myself that I had no power, no control and no bearing on the final outcome. But how can that be? She was my mom and I was her little girl. As a parent I see and feel just how much power my little girl has over me. How could the same not be true here? And then I come to the place where I know that it was not my decision to make and therefore how could I have any control over the outcome? This is the piece (or peace) that I hold onto with both hands and tie to my belt with lock and key.

Fear also enters the equation. I realize just how scared I am and how that exhibits in my daily life. This time gives me that reflection and the ability to look in the mirror and be real with myself about just how little progress I have made in that arena. I liken myself to the pit bull pushed back in the corner, feeling so threatened that I spend my days barking as loud as I can as to avoid the reality of really having to deal. I guess I feel if I bark loud enough everyone will just leave me alone, not ask any questions and not force me to look at this. I suppose this scares me because I've always seen myself as more of a Lab than a Pit. I am also truly, at my very soul, frightened that I could possibly fall prey to this illness as well. This leads me nowhere productive so I continue to bark; something she never did. In this way, I suppose I am trying to be the exact opposite of her in every way, feeling that if I do things in opposition that there is no possible way that the same outcome could come to fruition. If 1+1=2 then I am doing my damnedest to be 7. I don't want any part of that equation in my life. I feel like even letting a little "1" into my life might lead to 2. I'm in a mad dash in the race to "not."

I did allow something this year that shocked me right out of my shoes--anger. I was told shortly after by more than one person that I would be angry eventually. I was so completely offended by the very words that there should have been no doubt in my mind that I would, in fact, feel anger. If for no other reason than I said I never would. This anger enveloped me like an ugly demon and took me totally unsuspecting. I wasn't thinking about her specifically, just reading my boy an Easter book and low and behold I could not turn the next page. Peter Cottontail dropped me to my knees. It was a tangible feeling that wrapped its arms around me and squeezed the very breath out of me. I was literally inconsolable for 2 days, barely able to speak of it. Shame, guilt, sadness, humiliation all came along with this foretold emotion. But something magical came with it as well; acceptance. After almost 3 years I realized that I had never truly accepted. I wasn't in denial but I certainly wasn't embracing. When I was finally able to allow myself to be mad at her, I could then accept, and henceforth learn how to forgive. I'm not sure if that was the manner that this was intended to happen or if this is the "normal" path of grief but it was a start to something I swore I would never feel for her. Oddly, for me, that was the very key to my prison.

And then enters the sadness piece. This is the most overwhelming and distinct. The days leading up to her death must have been filled with such extreme sadness and every year around this time I relive that and try to imagine her mile. Harsh as it may sound, it seems to lend the ability to go a bit deeper and grieve a bit more as I know this process is still not close to being over. I was not able to bite off that whole piece at one time so it is something that I have been doing gradually. Doing this reflection at anniversary time makes the most sense to me. Being able to actually write about it now is a HUGE leap for me and I think a very important one. I have found in writing about things, as public and insanely intimate as it may be, it makes me feel like I have retold the story a thousand times over. In the retelling I find healing without having to truly speak the words or allow another human being to witness the anguish within. A coping and defense mechanism all in one. The story may be slightly different each time with more emphasis on one part or another when retold but the end result is always the same. It makes me feel like I am slowly mending my heart with a needle & thread and nurturing an aspect of me that is often neglected and done so by choice.

Which brings me to my final feeling...choice. At the end of the day this all harps on choice. I constantly tell my kids, "That's your choice. If you are willing to deal with the consequences go right ahead." Why can't I lend my mom the same dignity, the same right? I guess because we hold our parents to a different standard. The "perfection" standard. They were always so busy telling us what to do, how to live and the "right way" to act that they MUST have all the answers. This is where the little girl enters. The one who has yet to grow up and realize that parents are people too and DO make mistakes. I have always known this from a foundational perspective but to see it in such a stark reality was jarring and truly something I never expected.

As I lay in bed last night, tossing and turning with the anticipation of today I listened to the wind howling, beating against our window. A torrent of ferocity was pounding outside and it struck me as the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling. Tumultuous, utterly passionate, obnoxious, strong then weak, biting, cold and relentless. For the past week I have lived with the bubbling of tears right at the surface. Occasionally giving way to their power but doing my best to stay stoic. As I struggled to turn off my brain last night laying on my back looking at the pitch darkness, a single tear slid down to meet my pillow. Moments before drifting off to sleep I acknowledged that her suicide has undoubtedly changed my life, my core, my cloth but I rested with the solace that she is and will always be my Forever Mommie.

Mary T. Kascht-September 3, 1940-March 23, 2008