Let's just be honest here — it freaking sucked.

I don't mean you got to Sonic at 4:02 PM and barely missed happy hour kind of sucked. I don't mean someone beat you out of a top sale by $1.12 kind of sucked. I don't mean your favorite writing pen ran out of ink kind of sucked.

Weeks leading up to it, that knot in my stomach just kept growing and growing. The burning feeling you get behind your eyes when you feel yourself about to cry kept getting stronger and stronger. Looking at those pictures I had stolen from her house of her during the week of her funeral got harder and harder.

Her memory was everywhere, and it was still soon enough after her death that people were still asking how I was and how my dad was and it was like they would not stop talking. I would watch their mouths move and just hear that Charlie Brown type of "wah, wah, wah, wah" noises coming out. Everything anyone said annoyed me and I couldn't focus. I would spend my bathroom breaks at work crying in the tiny bathroom for three minutes at a time, and my lunch breaks curled up on my recliner at home with my dog bawling my eyes out and trying to sneak in bites in between sobs.

Finally, when that Sunday came along, I decided I would go to church that day. I was planning on skipping because of the obvious emotional trauma, but figured that church would be the best place to go that wouldn't make me break down at. Boy, was I wrong.

The entire sermon was dedicated to mother's and grandmother's and sister's — all of which, I have none. They gave out little pen and pad sets about Mother's Day and being women of faith. They had all of the mother's stand up and get a round of applause, and the elders spent the time sharing stories about their mother's — most of which were in the audience, pushing 90-years-old. It was torture. Why couldn't I be spending time with my mom, while these people are taking their mothers for granted right in front of me? I watched myself get jealous in the months to come after her death of every pair of mother and daughter holding hands or leaning on each other or whispering to each other or taking pictures with one another. I felt myself growing closed off and mad every time I saw an old couple walking together.

I spent that Sunday afternoon refusing to eat and just trying not to let my nose get raw from all of the Kleenexes. I sat huddled on my bed, on my bedroom floor, in the bathroom, on the kitchen floor, on my porch, on my couch the entire day crying on and off. It wasn't until I received a picture from a family friend of my mom's grave at the cemetery that I stopped crying enough to breathe — my dad and my friend had put up the huge metal sunflower that I had given to her a few years ago, along with various other garden things from their backyard. I could pick out things I had helped my dad pick out for birthdays, Christmases, Mother's Days and just because.

It made my heart swell. Finally, there were happy tears. Finally, there were grateful tears that I still had my dad and my friends. Finally, I didn't hate this day. Finally, I could smile.