The Art Of Loving After Losing Your Mom

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It was the morning after I found out my Mom died….

I was 11 years old and I slept on the leather brown couch we had in the living room. I woke up and began to prepare myself for school that day. I asked my Pops why he wasn’t at work already since he’d usually leave for work before I did. He said “go back to sleep bud.” Confused and filled with curiosity I said “can you drive me to school?” Usually I hated going to school but I felt different that day. That day I wanted to escape from my house; because in this house; well this was the house where my Mom had died. She was only 39 and she died right under this roof that I called home. It just didn’t feel right being there.

With apprehension I went back to sleep. It wasn’t to hard going to sleep because sleep was my medicine. It was my only aide in being able to escape from the firm reality that now my Mom was gone. I didn’t cry though for the rest of the day or the next day or the next day or the day after that. I remember feeling ashamed more then feeling sorrow. I felt shame because I made up excuses and lies in order to not visit my Mom in the hospital.

Finally the day came…. it was the day of her wake and it took place at QueerHammer funeral homes. I always found the funeral home name to be quite odd because after all it had the word “queer” in it. That’s besides the point. The wake had started and there wasn’t a dry eye in the funeral home except for me. I felt fine. I felt completely fine. Until I walked with hesitation toward my Moms white marble casket and I saw her cold, frozen and lifeless face. Then the flood gates opened up and I began to wail. It was the thought of “I’m never ever going to talk to my Mom ever again” that made me cry for the next few hours. I couldn’t stop crying. I loved talking to my Mom. My Mom and I were very close and every question I had I went to my Mom with. It wasn’t fair that she was gone now. At least that’s what I believed.

Losing my Mom created a spark inside of me that forced me to obsess over skills and to become the best I could at those skills. Snowboarding was my first obsession. I would go seven days a week. I would stay home sick from school and still manage to find myself at the park that night. I would stay home from school some days and still find myself with the energy to go to the snowboard park. Then it was Motocross and I was absolutely completely absorbed in that next. After the Snowboarding and Motocross it was fitness and eating healthy. I was obsessed with fitness magazines and trying to get bigger. I didn’t have the best genetics for muscle building but I worked very hard to try and build the best physique I could.

I realize now that my life has been filled with obsessing over ideas. When I have a goal in mind I want nothing more then to achieve that goal. That’s why I’ve never worried about being with a girl. I’ve always found it to be secondary.

By analysing my Moms death and analysing why I am the way I am today it makes sense. I don’t want to leave this world knowing I’ve done it half ass. I’m actually in love with failure because with every step of failure comes a little pebble of knowledge. I’m happier when I’m creating something that isn’t working rather then watching a movie. I’m happier when I’m writing because I know that someone else out their in the world now feels less alone. I’m happiest when I’ve been through something like talking to the Bill collectors or doing mundane tasks like laundry and cleaning because I know that I can listen to my favorite podcast and listen to some knowledge that I can spread out to the world. Finally, I’m happiest when I think about the relationship with my Mom. Even though she is gone right now she still lives inside my imagination and that’s why even when you’re dead; you’re not.

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