I said I wasn’t going to do it.

Like I had any control of this shit at all.

I felt like I wasn’t going to be upset this Thanksgiving. The first one since Mom died. This time last year was the last time I spoke to her. I always called her THE Chocolate Pie recipe that somehow I always seemed to forget. This was the time of year we really talked and caught up, because all the other times life circumstances got in the way. But she always made it a point to call me on big and small holidays, birthdays, and random Sunday nights.

Here I am, bawling my guts out because I tried to go find the damn chocolate pie recipe. I can’t find it, which happens every year but now I can’t pick up the fucking phone and ask. Because my mom is dead and I won’t be able to ask her for anything anymore.

I never used to ask her for anything except recipes because of our strained relationship. But now I want to ask her everything. I feel like a bag of dicks even saying that because I should have cared sooner. I should have asked sooner. Not the type of oh poor pitiful me, I should have XYZ, but like truly oh fuck, there’s literally no way for me to ask anymore. Not about the pie but about everything.

I said I wasn’t going to do it.

Like I had any control of this shit at all.

No one has her baked mac-n-cheese recipe. It’s not in her recipe box that I took. Where the fuck is the fucking recipe? Why does this make me so angry? Why do I want to just hop on a plane and go to her house and tear everything apart?

I have to face all of this. I have to actually deal with it. I can’t be self-destructive or reckless. I have responsibilities, a family, priorities, but these emotions just stop everything in their tracks and take over like the plague. I can’t even pound an alcoholic beverage (which I don’t even enjoy) or smoke one of her Virginia Slims because I’m pregnant. I’m fully, naturally, un-medicatedly having to deal with this pain. And that makes me mad.

It makes me sad.

It makes me happy that I even care enough about my mother who I so deeply had problems with. That deep down, in fact, I did love her more than I ever knew was possible. That I cared for her and trusted her more than I could ever give credit to. That she was so much more than her drinking problem. All of these feelings are proving it.

They are proving shit that I have run from since I was 15 years old, that I now have to face with no numbing abilities. I guess shit really does catch up with you no matter where you go in life.

I said I wasn’t going to do it.

Like I had any control over this shit at all.

It’s hard to be an open book on here. I have enemies. I have stalkers. I have attackers. Ones who constantly wage a war against me and try to use all that I’m trying to use for the good, and twist it into something it’s not.

I’ve never cussed like this in a post. But this was written in mascara tears and snot bubbles. I’m trying to be authentic to myself which is what my mother would have wanted. Screw them all, mom was right.

Pray for me.

Love,

B