"Shut Up When I'm Talking To You"

I sabotage myself.  I do.  Still.  But at least now I can spot it and name it, so that's something.

Two nights ago, I took Jake and Tim to see the musical, Lion King.  It was amazing and we had a great time...except...
except at intermission, Jacob wanted a hoodie and while paying for it, I noticed a dainty little set of charm bracelets that belonged on Cory's arm.  And just like, my heart landed at my ankles and the sneaky, nearly imperceptible feelings of guilt and shame began to hum in the background of my thoughts.
Here having a great time at Lion KIng, are you?  For the second time?  Seeing it in New York like Cory never got to wasn't enough, Nick?  She should be here.  But she's not.  Why is that?  What role did you play in that?

The persisting thoughts that I could've saved her started there; by the next day, they were all encompassing.  I laid in my bed, my dog beside me, poring over every minute of July 5, 2012, seeing every frame...rewinding...replaying...pausing...so much horror.  My chest began to hurt, but still I couldn't seem to stop myself from replaying every last moment and trying out all the possible variations if I'd done something...anything...differently.

The guilt I feel whenever I enjoy something now that she's gone?  I don't know where that comes from.  I know it's not logical.  I can push my way past it after I've had a day or two to feel it, name it, and send it on its way.  It does not help me.

But the shame?  Where does that come from...this pervasive, horrifying feeling that a better mother would never have sent her child on an errand she could run herself?  That certainty that my judgment in that single moment was deeply flawed and cost my sweet girl her life- it's nearly impossible to renounce; where does that come from?

I have one idea.

I remember feeling responsible for Cory's death the moment they told me she was dead on the road.  So there's my ownership of feeling not good enough and like a failure at keeping her safe, the hardest thing I'd ever done up until that point.

Thinking it was my fault that Cory died has plagued me ever since.  Every human being I've ever spoken to about this thought pattern has assured me that it is illogical and distorted...
except one.

Of all the hurtful things Bob has ever said to me, telling me Cory's death was my fault was easily the most damaging.

Most of the time I have been able to separate myself from his out of control emotions, even if took years to do it.  Looking back now, almost all of his words have lost their power.  Like anyone else, I can sometimes be difficult, but I am not a bitch.  I may act foolishly at times, but I am not stupid.  I didn't always know my self-worth, but I was never a slut.  Those names he called me?  They belonged to him and to his rage, not to me.  I look in the mirror and see them nowhere in my reflection.

But the accusation  I keep hearing in my head?  "You might as well have been driving the car yourself."

Ridiculous?  Yes.  I would never hurt Cory on purpose.  But my mind translates it so effortlessly to "You should've gone to the store yourself.  She'd have never been on the road that day.  She'd be alive today if only you'd done it differently."  Now that plays in my heart so genuinely.  For what is the primary job of a mother, if not to protect her child?

Unlike Bob, I don't for one second think I was a bad mother.  But maybe I wasn't good enough.

So this is when I borrow a page from Cory who had to deal with auditory hallucinations, not just memories of something mean said to her by someone unstable, on a daily basis.  Sometimes, she'd talk back to them, tell them they were wrong.

Shut up, Bob.  Shut up when I'm talking to you. 

Where were you that day? 
 What did you even know about her? 
 Did you ever worry when she was growing up if she was hungry or cold or scared?  Did you?  
Where were you all her life?  
I know where I was.  I was there taking care of her, loving her, feeding her, clothing her, tucking her in, soothing her fears, buying her books, listening to music with her, watching movies, talking, joking, laughing, enjoying the wonder that she was.

And I know where I was that day.

I was cooking her dinner.  She was nineteen years old and I was still worried if she was hungry, if she was scared, if she felt loved, if she felt good enough, if she was okay.  I thought about it when I woke up in the morning and I thought about it before I went to sleep at night.

So shut up, Bob, shut up when I'm talking to you.

And as far as Lion King goes,  Cory would've loved it. I know every part she would've laughed at.  I know the scenes she'd have declared her favorite.   I know she would've clapped until her little hands throbbed, leaping  to her feet before any of us for the final curtain call.   But if she couldn't go, she'd want me to take her little brother who now stands three and half inches taller than she was.  She'd want me to watch his face just as carefully.  She'd want me to notice the parts that made him belly laugh and discuss them in length with him on the car ride home.   She'd want me to reach over and grab his arm in the dark during the exciting parts, even if he pulled away in embarrassment.  She'd want us to enjoy every moment.  That's just the kind of girl she was.

The kind of girl I raised her to be, Bob.

That same girl  told me the voices were scary and hurtful but they were wrong.  That same girl, on a good day, would sometimes get so fed up with the voices' annoying commentary that she'd stop in mid-conversation with me to tap a slender finger lightly  to the side of her head and roll her eyes in contempt.  The look on her face?  These stupid losers just don't give up.  She'd give a wry grin, shrug her shoulders lightly,  and refocus on our conversation.  She'd try again.

Guess I need to start rolling my eyes whenever Bob's voice pipes up in my mind talking shit.

You see, Cory and I?  We don't give up, either.

 And we are smart enough to consider the source.