The Walking Crescent

I have struggled through words and art to express the horror of not only losing my precious daughter, but also losing the bulk of my identity.  Behind the courteous smiles and laughter in the right places, I am lost, wandering around looking for the rest of me.  I have looked in the wrong places; I have given up before giving some places a thorough search.  But the hunt always resumes.  It must.

If you draw a big circle, that's me.  Inside it, make an arc that cuts the pie into maybe two thirds, and one third.  Got it?  Two thirds of me has been a mother my entire adult life, since I was nineteen years old.  A mother first.  A mother last.  If nothing else, a mother.  Left alone to raise a baby- I was still a mother.  Single parent, poor- still a mother.  Separated from my husband with a divorce in process- still a mother.  If I were fired from my job tomorrow, God forbid- I'd still be a mother.

 The third is split into many smaller sections:  daughter, wife, friend, worker.  Now go back to the the mother slice, and let's tell the truth.  Cory got the largest piece- one- because I had that job for nearly twenty years, and two- because she needed me more.  Jacob got a smaller portion, but just what he needed. We are still learning this dance

 Now let's talk about Cory's illness, and how being Cory's mom during that time bled over into every other part of me.  Her well being was my first waking thought and the last thing I turned over in my mind before sleep.

Do you have this picture?  Now take your trusty marker and scribble out the Cory's mom part of the pie.  And scribble out half of the Jake's mom slice because I am struggling to fill that role.  What is left?  A little slice- a little slice that is miserable and lost, and just wants to go home.

But home is gone.  And now there is the job of rebuilding your identity.  What do you put in all that empty space?  Some people fill it with drugs; some fill it with drink.  I tried to fill it with possessions- a most miserable failure that I will continue to pay for.

  I've tried filling it with new labels:  writer, artist, speaker.  I understand the concept of filling that space with something, of gluing the plate back together- cracked but usable.  I do.

But let me tell you something:  It is uncomfortable.  It's scary.  It feels like a farce.  All of that is fine, I am no stranger to difficult situations.  Here's the worst part:  I don't think I'll ever find anything to fill that space as well as being Cory's mom did.  I do feel as if I'll always be broken and wandering.

"Feelings are transient.  They are temporary."  my counselor says. Oh buddy, are we sure?  I've been feeling this way an awfully long time now, and I'm not sure I'd recognize the face of hope if I tripped over her on the street.

Because here's what I believe, right here, right now, just between you and me.  I believe I can learn to live and function without Cory.  But I don't believe I will ever be happy without her.  It is the most foreign concept to me.

Happy without my girl?  Have you lost your mind?
Impossible.