Losing my mother at a young age was never the plan.
I was supposed to grow up with both parents, in a loving atmosphere that taught me how to love and be loved so one day I could marry my own prince charming. But instead, by seven years old I had experienced a feeling of loss most don't understand until they are much older.
The grieving process is a funny thing. Movies display this constant depression that only gets better with time, however, reality is much crueler. Grieving doesn't make you sad in the traditional sense. You don't always cry and miss out on months of school because life is unbearable. In fact, I had to force myself to cry at my mom's funeral because it just seemed like I should have felt sad. Actually, grieving came much later in life than I expected.
Once I hit high school things became different. I tried to fill the wounds my mother's death had left with alcohol and drugs, but my favorite was relationships. The feeling of someone choosing me was unlike any drug or cheap bottle of wine I could find. I found myself looking for relationships in anyone I got involved with, wondering if they would make good spouses or parents to our children almost immediately. But yet, as soon as I got comfortable around them I would start pushing away. Part of me hoped they'd care enough to come back and the other part of me just wanted to end it before I cared enough to love them. I didn't like the thought of being emotionally invested in someone who could hurt me the way my mom's death had. I didn't want to willingly give anyone the power to hurt me that way again.
It made me feel unlovable. Like I was lonely but sort of needy, yet not wanting to need anyone. I was insecure which led to more jealousy in my relationships and I found it hard to trust anyone. I couldn't understand what was wrong with me and that led to depression. One of the hardest things about grieving for me was the depression. I felt out of control of my life and like no one could possibly understand what I was going through. I resented my family members, my friends, and almost anyone that knew me well enough to know I needed help. I went through this cycle for about five years — being with someone, almost loving them, then getting hurt either by my own actions or theirs and repeat.
Until finally, my senior year I tried to end my life.
I got hurt by the only person I ever let in. She was my rock, my best friend, and I felt like for the first time I actually understood why it never worked with anyone else. We broke up February 14th and on February 16th I slit my wrist and took a handful of pills, hoping that either way one would do me in. For whatever reason, it didn't. I passed out at around 8:40 p.m. and woke up the next day cursing the Gods for the cruel fate they so clearly wanted me to live through.
Three years later, and here I am. I'm in love with the man of my dreams, working as a teacher, giving hope to other people just like me. I went through the worst years of my life, seeing death as the only possible outcome, and yet here I am to tell the story. I blamed so many people for the issues I had as a teenager when in reality it was all just obstacles I had to overcome in order to be who I am today. I wouldn't trade my past for the world. Without it, I wouldn't have been ready to love the man I will hopefully call my husband in a few years. I wouldn't be willing to forgive my parents and have a great relationship with my dad. I wouldn't be ready to move on from my mother's death.
Eleven years later and I'm finally ready to say, I'm moving on from that pain.
