Everyone tells me that I am in denial about you—and that I should be angry with you for many things. Of course sometimes I get angry. I am angry that I do not have someone to look to for advice and guidance, that I had to figure our for myself how to take care of my babies and raise my children, that my children will never know their grandmother, that I can’t invite you to my house for dinner or sip iced tea together in the summertime, or even go shopping together and talk girl talk. But I am not angry at you.
I understand that you did what you could, and could find no other way to conquer those inner daemons. Some people are stronger than others – and we all come equipped with certain strengths, weaknesses and unique talents. I cannot be angry at you for who you were and who you came to be.
I choose to remember the part of you that was kind, loving, creative and passionate. You were my mother, not a vision of perfection or without faults, but simply a woman raising her children as best she could, navigating her way through her own darkness with just enough strength to see us to adulthood. I accept that this is what you were able to do – it is the reality of your life (and now mine). How can I be mad at you for that? What good does it do in the end?
Either way, I love you and I miss you. I am not angry with you and hope that you have found peace where you are.