Mother’s Day Makes Me Cry

ceasarean section

Mother’s Day is Sunday.

Last year I sent my daughter to live with her father at this time. This year I’m even more alone.

There’s something fucked up about being utterly alone every day and night, especially if you’ve previously spent 20 years of your life married and 13 of those with your child in the house as well.

Maybe it’s that Mother’s Day is dovetailing with the move into this house. I’m finally feeling settled here so my mind is no longer as occupied with the thousand tiny problems that a move presents. Now that same neurotic mass of gray matter is back to it’s usual tricks.

A person can escape from a lot of things but unfortunately the cerebellum is continually attached and functioning. Damned brain. Doh.

God knows I’ve tried to placate that culpable cerebellum. For years I drowned it in alcohol and drugs. Phalanxes of doctors have tried to re-organize the functioning with pharmaceutical cocktails.

Years of analysis and psychotherapy have resulted in new Porsches and second homes
for the doctors.

I’ve tried exercise –with an iPod or Walkman to shut out my thoughts-, reading, watching movies (I have a difficult time sitting still through them), writing, sex, food and playing the piano.

Some days the head wins though. The will to even try and avoid those dark alleyways has vanished. You never know do you?

The last year was a bad one. Seems it all started to go sideways last May. Hopefully a better twelve months shall ensue. C~ will be with me at Christmas break and summer break, and I can hardly wait. Allowing her to go and live with her dad is a decision which I’ll never forgive myself for.

New house, my beautiful piano is on it’s way, and the sun is shining in Reno again. Hell, we even had another earthquake last night. Could be a sign of change.

Could be a sign of the Apocalypse.

Oh wait. The Apocalypse is already here. Bush is still in office and gas is almost $4.00 a gallon.

If I can make it through Mother’s Day without totally losing it there’s hope. I’ll talk on the phone with my mom, my step-mother and of course my own daughter.

I’ll drink a cup of coffee to that.

~the fairly morose miss b


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