(11.23 — I have been 26 years old for 6 days.)
my mother, whose depression she had wrought so much into me, and by whom I had been forced to learn to appreciate the most broken girls and women of my life, had finally learned just enough of me and said that I would no longer be concerned as I had been by her when I was smaller and when I was more of a thing to be built than to be lost.
she told me that I could live as I want to live from which I involved that I could die as I want to die. I read deeper and she may have thought that it was, finally, the freedom she granted me, but I also wondered if she thought that other way, a condemnation, a sentencing of an already trapped person into another prison, an unwanted permission to be myself when I so did not not want to be.
I had met with her seeking some compassion that I thought no one else was allowed to give. but she told me to sit up straight so that her words would be taken definitively, formally. and with a few sentences she released us from anything that bound and from anything that might make each other necessary.
I heard. I nodded. I went back to my rented home and slept that afternoon. I did not dream about how, when, or where as I would’ve before, though I felt ready.
I received a letter from a sister of a friend who had passed at the age of 38 due to ALS. she wrote how she had heard of my existence and combed through some of her brother’s leftover belongings and found in a shoebox a collection of letters I had written him.
she had read them, though she was sorry to intrude into a private conversation between myself and her brother, and she had been moved enough to write to say that she was sorry for my loss. it was strange to hear these words as I had told no one of my friend’s passing, as no one around me had known him, and strange to hear it from her who was probably closer to him.
I wrote her back a short note. I told her that her brother was the only person who I believe truly did love everyone, who could hear any person’s story without judgement, and who cared not enough but too much and too often in a way that must have been difficult for him.
I don’t know if it was the right thing to say but it was honest and now, I had to be honest everyday because I could not make the effort to be anything else.