Complicated

The last couple of days, "it's complicated" has echoed through my thoughts.  I hate that saying which is so prevalent when it comes to television and the movies when people are talking about their love life.  I always get annoyed with that overused line.  Yet, here I think of how appropriate that saying is when it comes to my relationship with my mother.  Complicated!

Frankly, I don't even know where to start.  Later this year, probably in October, I will write a memoire that I may or may not publish.  Until then, I do have a few things I want to discuss.  I loved my mother growing up even when I wished I was adopted, even when I wished Dad would divorce her and let me live with him.  Life was hard in the shadow of mental illness.  After I left home, the love faded slowly on her bad days and blossomed on her good days, only to be dashed again.  Over time, the bad days became more common.  I lost the love when Dad became sick.  Her bad days became rampant.  I only held on out of respect for Dad, Grandpa, and motherhood.

The last year leaves me a bit speechless.  I felt so much hate and loathing.  I felt frustration and confusion.  My emotions were held hostage.  I was a prisoner.  I felt like a monster.  After Mom died, I felt such a sense of relief, freedom.  Yet, my sister and I had a huge mess to clean.  My mother was a hoarder.  The house was so full in half of the rooms we couldn't even move around in them.  No repairs had been done in years.  We had our emotions to deal with and are still dealing with them.  We both have the vision of our mother wasting away though perfectly healthy in body.  She choice to stop living by not eating and drinking.  We had to pick up the pieces.

When I wrote my memoire surrounding my dad's death, I was filled with such pain.  The first fifty thousand words helped me with my November project in 2016, but I never finished the project.  In fact, I haven't taken the time to read through it or continue.  My courage has faltered because I think I won't like the person I was then.  I hated my mom.  I wanted to show the world what a monster she was during that time.  In the last four years, my vision of her hasn't changed much, but I know there is more to my mom.  People loved her even if I didn't at the end.

As the craftier sister, I took over sorting through all the quilting items.  Everywhere I turned, I found unfinished projects of my mom's.  A quilting block here, a quilting block there, cut up fabric, entire quilts that only need a binding, partially completed wall hangings, in total there were nine to ten boxes I filled.  My anger fought with my empathy.  I could see her good and bad days in the projects she left behind, the legacy she left behind.  I called my husband and warned him.  The boxes were coming home.  I was going to attempt to finish them with the timeline of ten years.  I won't become a hoarder.  If I haven't done anything with them in five years, I will pitch boxes.  What isn't done in ten years, I will pitch.  (Really, I will find a good cause or person who wants to do the work.)

In fact, once the gardening season is over, my focus will be writing memoire and quilting.  I want to find healing and maybe a little love.  I want to show the devastation of mental illness, but with empathy, not loathing.  All will be done with the prayer of surrender and the ability to see my mother as God the Father sees her.  In small ways, I have already started.

The other day, I thought about how I used to enjoy calling my mom on one of her good days.  I loved to tell her what I was up to and hearing what her latest project happened to be that I could very well have to finish.  Oh, the irony.  I honestly had wondered if I would ever have a positive memory.  God graced me with one.  Yes, when asked about my mother, saying it's complicated is quite appropriate.

Oh, and here is one of the projects that needed finished.  Mom sewed the entire potholder except the back part of the binding.

A couple of nights ago, I googled YouTube videos to teach me how to hand sew the last part of the binding.  I did it!!!  I have finished one small project in the pile of unfinished items.  I would love to say that I am well on my way to accomplishing my task, but I won’t jinx it.