Today my mom would have been 103, so unlike many of my friends, I never expected her to be around for me at my age. But since she has been gone for 40 years, I’ve missed her longer than I had her. I don’t dwell on this much, but something that happened to be last week brought my lack of mothering to mind.
One of the many cruel declarations against us horrible liberals asserted that we were mentally ill for supporting our LGBTQIA family and friends. It made me feel so alone and hopeless to realize this. My brain reverted to childhood, tears came to my eyes, and from deep in my past, the cry of “I want my mom” came up. I just wanted a hug from someone who unconditionally loved me.
I can still smell the Chanel No. 5 and smoke on mom as she wrapped her skinny tanned arms around me as I cried after being bullied or taunted.
It was hard being a chubby, sensitive child. It’s hard being her sensitive adult self.
I am saddened that the way people treat each other today can send me back to such raw emotional needs. Yikes. And I know I’m not alone. We all need to have a safe place, a virtual place of comfort like when you’re in your mother or father’s arms.
Mature-ish Suna must find that in herself. Ugh. (Yes, I have a fine spouse and friends, but they aren’t Mom.)
I tend to write about how Mom’s mental health issues made things difficult for me, but I assure you, she had many fine qualities, one of which was loving her children as best as she could.
She was also funny, an amazing artist and crafter, a great dancer, a gardener with a solid green thumb, a creative and resourceful cook, a fine whistler, and really good with makeup and nail polish. I remember all these traits, too.
I do miss my mom. I think she’s giving me strength via her memories. I need it.
The Hermits' Rest 