Going Pains

Going Pains

Mom, you’re not perfect, and that’s fine— normal, even. But I never looked for perfect in you. You loved me and did your best to ensure mine and my siblings’ happiness to make up for a lack of a father, and because that’s just your instinctive nature. You sacrificed so much for us, and I love you more than words could say. You’re all I’ve ever known. But the more I know, the less I know you. And the more I feel there’s no other choice but to go.

See, you were never rich or well-educated, and you were never afraid to remind us. “It is what it is” was your undeclared motto when it came to anything that had to do with your own well-being. You raised us to see it that way, but deep down I knew there had to be a better way. You didn’t have to be “dumb”. You didn’t have to be “fat”. My older brother and sister may have been declared mentally retarded, but they weren’t doomed. They still aren’t, yet you still live by, “it is what it is.”

As I got older and asked more questions and acquire more knowledge, I came to understand so much more of who you are, and what you could be. I discovered that yes, there IS a better way! The more I learned, the more driven I became to help you… that is, only if you admitted that help was needed.

Of course, no one wants to be told that their favorite food is full of toxic ingredients, or that their favorite drink is deadly when consumed in large amounts. No one wants to admit that they have depression, or that they “need” to do anything. “No no, my life is comfortable,” you say in your head. “This is all I’ve known; why change it now? Change is hard. Life is hard enough without having to give up what makes me happy.”

And that’s just it: you can be happy and healthy with enough effort.

That’s where my help ends and your work begins.

You spend all your days watching tv, playing games on your phone, yelling at my brother or sister to do something just so you don’t have to get up. You suffer from incontinence because you don’t want to get up until you “really have to.” Your legs ache because of poor circulation. Dirty dishes and used disposable containers spread across every room of the home as if intentionally placed. I look to the floor and I’m glad I have shoes on.

When you can’t think of an excuse fast enough to explain it, you simply reply with a disappointed “Yeah, I know.”

Michael and I tried moving in so that we could help, financially and physically, repairing things here and there, cleaning up inside and outside your vintage house. Just like your rendition of love, they made you happy for a moment. Our acts of service were helpful, small as they may have been. However, the repairs and tidying up that needed to be made for lasting results were not, because they were within you. The cleaning up inside and outside did nothing to encourage the cleaning that needed to be done within your heart and mind. You kept your defeatist attitude, and though grateful, when our help ended, your work never began.

“I can’t be there anymore,” I’d cry to Michael when we had a chance to ourselves. “I know she loves being able to see our two little ones every day, but this isn’t a good environment for them. My mom just can’t anymore.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t that you couldn’t. It was that you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t try to keep the house clean or dedicate to at least trying to improve your health.

Continuing with the theme of painful honesty, I didn’t lose my engagement ring. I sold it so that we could afford a down payment on a rental and get out of your house, which had become an unacceptable excuse for a home.

I couldn’t be surrounded by everything you held onto. I couldn’t let my kids suffer from secondhand despair. To this day I still have a hard time being in your house without hurting for you. “Focus on her, not her problems,” I tell myself. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend like everything was fine.

I’m not perfect. It’s obvious I inherited your “healer” heart. I could argue that, in contrast, for myself the “healing” isn’t superficial or short-term. It goes deep and is much more goal-oriented. However, it doesn’t make me much better than you, does it? Constantly trying to fix things instead of embracing the journey with love and compassion.

We are all broken, and I wouldn’t dare dismiss your pain and suffering to shame you. This is not at all meant to be embarrassing or demeaning. This is to let you know how absolutely painful it is to see you drifting away and denying every life raft that’s offered to you. For my well-being and for the three lives of the next generation that I’m entrusted with, boundaries need to be made. I’m still here for you, and I’ll still love you more than words could ever say. But the more I know, the more I know that I haved to go.