Worth

I can't avoid writing about this any longer.  It's stuck in my throat, and I can't get past it.


For too many years, I measured my worth on my value to another person.  If he missed me, I felt good about myself.  If he didn't, I must not be enough for someone to miss.

If things didn't work out, I hadn't tried hard enough, performed well enough, or tolerated enough.

It was never him; it was always me.

So he told me, and so I believed.

I am so past all that shit.  Or at least I thought I was until I realized I've been keeping tabs on someone else's reaction to Cory's death for the last two years, and for what reason?

Why do I care if he misses her?

Cory's worth does not depend on how another person grieves her, or what she meant or did not mean to him.  She had a full and happy life completely independent of him.

 I cannot judge or even know how someone else grieves for my daughter, but this much I do know:  as much as I feel I am being burned alive in my grief for her, I was once completely set alive by her smile, her eyes, and  her laugh.  The pain now is the price of the joy then.

  I am mourning her entire lifespan, every moment, while he can only mourn the small slice of her that  he took the trouble to get to know.  I could name every scar on her body before the day she died.  I knew every story.  Her tears were mine, and mine were hers.

So what if he doesn't mourn her out loud, in public, or at all?   She will always be completely irreplaceable magic and joy, not a disposable girl to be forgotten, a failed attempt, or a closed door.

 Sure, she deserves to be missed, but she deserves to be missed by someone who knew her well and treated her better.