Mommy and the Monsters

I feel deeply connected to a culture that is not mine. When I travel to this foreign land, it feels like a return home. I remember, visiting there as a child, my parents telling me how it reminded them of their own mother land, frozen in time, but I wonder if there is another memory or past life experience that ties me to this place.

Yes, its beaches and lovely music enchant visitors all the time. Its people charm tourists professionally. But it’s more than that. Sitting on a rocking chair observing the chaos of strangers on the town roads, far from all inclusive resorts, I feel more content than in my climate-controlled home where I am surrounded by people who love me and every luxury I could possibly need. Yet, I prefer it there, with the bare minimum, blackouts and all. I feel ashamed to admit that. I am the child of immigrants who were escaping the very conditions I escape TO. They sacrificed so I could yearn for what they started with, after having been blessed with everything they dreamed of having. The irony of it isn’t lost on me.

A few years ago, while on a family trip, I had a few moments away from my kids and I intended to quiet my nerves alone by the beach. It was then that the ocean spoke to me and asked me for fruit. I realize how crazy that sounds. Over time, I learned that many Cubans believe that the goddess of the ocean, Yemaya, prefers fresh fruit as an offering, but I didn’t know that when a voice in my head told me to bring melon to the shore, and sit there, weeping. I didn’t know it then, but in retrospect I believe that’s when my timeline shifted.

I became more intrigued by this deity and in learning about her, I learned also of the goddess of the rivers, the wind, the keeper of paths, and how each of these were married to saints that I had grown up hearing about, specifically from my grandmother who would invoke them in various rituals she’d perform. I wish I had learned more about her alternative healing practices while she was still alive. Maybe she is the reason why I felt so connected to the spiritual practices in this foreign land, where watching rituals that would normally make my weak stomach turn, I am instead filled with a warm soothing feeling of peace. Why chanting in a language that I don’t understand is the only way to silence my intrusive thoughts and calm my soul.

Is it my grandmother’s spirit, or a memory I carry from a past life, where maybe I looked more like these people I feel at home with? Is the longing to return there over and over again my own, or something I carry from a spirit guide who has something pending?

I don’t have the answers to those questions but what I do know is that when I’m there, I feel so full of life. As though the life at home, the one I escape from, is missing something crucial, the absence of which drains me constantly.

I read a meme once that said “build a life you don’t need to escape from.” I haven’t figured out how to do that yet, so in the meantime I will count my blessings that I have everything I ever wanted, and the opportunity to take a break from it when it doesn’t feel like enough.

I’ve been more anxious than usual lately so I constantly have a cacophony of thoughts running though my head at all times.

My son is currently being so loud that I can’t hear my thoughts, which makes me more anxious because some part of my fucked up brain thinks we might miss an important thought or warning of impending doom.

Thanks anxiety.

That’s all. That’s the blog post.

Everyone went for coffee with their younger selves

But I couldn’t do it

I couldn’t face her, all bright eyed and excited to start living the fairytale she planned

Of course the point of the coffee date is to prove that we turned out alright. Right?

That’s what we’re supposed to say.

It’s ugly though, little one.

The good news is that you have the burden and the curse of being authentic

Which isn’t something you ever dreamed of being

You didn’t know how much your bloodline needed you to question, shake things up, and not conform

In that way, future you is someone we should both be proud of, little one,

But I just couldn’t hold your hand in a café and break down into tears, as I know I would when I’d see your sweet naive face

I’m not afraid of crying in public anymore, but I know you’d be scared

You’re not used to seeing emotions

Not safe ones anyway

So you’d think you were unsafe with me if you saw me cry the way I am now.

But, oh, baby girl, these tears aren’t what they seem.

Never let them tell you that you have nothing to cry about.

I wish we could sit in a café crying together, and I could hold you and hold space for your heavy emotions until maybe you can catch your breath long enough to see that I never left your side.

I suppose we could do that.

Maybe I am worried about how we’d look to others after all

Even though I have spent years convincing myself that what others think no longer concerns me.

I guess I’m still unlearning a lot of the things they taught you, little one.

Maybe we can grab a coffee one day,

When it’s not trending.

Our way.

We should both bring tissues.

I heard music today

Happy music.

And it came from the most unexpected place:

A funeral home.

I imagined family members inside

Celebrating life.

And I thought 

When She comes for me again,

But it is in fact my time to go, 

Or if She got her way with me

And I couldn’t fight her off…

Then I ask you not to celebrate Her.

Darkness doesn’t need more power.

She already takes up too much space 

And robs too much life out of days that are still worth living.

Her veil overshadows too many little joys,

Numbs too many hearts that still have so much love to give

And receive

And feel.

So when She does take me,

Do not feed her with your tears.

Celebrate instead all the times I overcame her shackles,

Every time I swam back to the surface when no one even knew I was drowning.

Do not listen the solemn music that lets Her seep inside you 

Until She gets a hold on you too.

Instead, play the rhythms that brought sunshine to my soul.

Let it remind you of the days I danced.

The days I won against Her.

And I want you to dance too.

Win.

Love.

Live.

Because I spent too many days surviving 

So don’t gift Her your days too.

Look instead for the glimmers around you

Even when She has a hold on your heart and steals your breath.

Especially then.

Look for that ray of sunshine that breaks through the clouds

And know that your angels are in that Light

And I will be too.

In the butterflies

In the sun that reflects off the ripples in the water

In the sparkle of freshly fallen snow.

When I’m gone and you light a candle for me

Don’t do it with sorrow

Honor the Light, for it’s where I’ll be

Because even when she comes for me,

She will not win.

So play happy music

In unexpected places

And maybe it will remind someone who hears it in the distance 

That there is still so much life to live

---

Oscuridad

Hoy escuché música

Música alegre.

Y vino del lugar más inesperado:

Una funeraria.

Imaginé a los miembros de la familia dentro

Celebrando la vida.

Y pensé 

Cuando Ella venga a buscarme de nuevo

Pero de hecho es mi hora de irme, 

O si Ella se saliera con la suya

Y yo no pudiera luchar contra ella…

Entonces te pido que no la celebres.

La oscuridad no necesita más poder.

Ya ocupa demasiado espacio 

Y le roba demasiada vida a los días que aún valen la pena vivir.

Su velo ensombrece demasiadas pequeñas alegrías,

entumece demasiados corazones que aún tienen mucho amor que dar

Y recibir

Y sentir.

Así que cuando Ella me lleve

No la alimentes con tus lágrimas.

Celebra en cambio todas las veces que superé sus grilletes,

Cada vez que nadé de vuelta a la superficie cuando nadie sabía que me estaba ahogando.

No escuches la música solemne que deja que Ella se filtre dentro de ti 

Hasta que Ella se apodere de ti también.

En su lugar, toca los ritmos que trajeron sol a mi alma.

Deja que te recuerde los días que bailé.

Los días que gané contra Ella.

Y quiero que tú también bailes.

Gana.

Ama.

Vive.

Porque pasé demasiados días sobreviviendo 

Así que no le regales a ella también tus días.

Busca en cambio los destellos a tu alrededor

Incluso cuando Ella tenga agarrado tu corazón y te robe el aliento.

Especialmente entonces

Busca ese rayo de sol que se abre paso entre las nubes

Y sabe que tus ángeles están en esa Luz

Y yo también lo estaré

En las mariposas

En el sol que se refleja en las ondas del agua

En el brillo de la nieve recién caída.

Cuando me haya ido y enciendas una vela por mí

No lo hagas con pena

Honra la Luz, porque es donde yo estaré

Porque incluso cuando ella venga por mí

Ella no ganará.

Así que toca música alegre

En lugares inesperados

Y tal vez le recuerde a alguien que la escuche en la distancia 

Que aún queda mucha vida por vivir.

My grade 1 teacher and I follow each other on Facebook. She commented on one of my blog posts that she remembered me being an excellent writer even back then – 35 years ago! And she’s right, I was. And I was so eager to impress my teachers with my writing.

As I grew older and became filled with teenage angst, I was driven by my friend’s reactions to my dark poems that I’d scribble during Math class and proceed to pass around on a torn-out spiral notebook page.

And then I kind of stopped writing. Was it because I had no one to pass my poems to in cegep and university? Was I too consumed with my studies to pause long enough to write anything worthwhile? Or was I so numb and self-medicating with dopamine fixes from binge drinking, suppressing all emotions and distracting myself with my active and chaotic social life?

Or is it because I had no one to write for? I feel like that’s why I was never into journaling, even in recent years when I’ve been on a self-healing journey filled with meditation, energy work, and therapy. It has always felt like a waste to write something just for me, without anyone else’s validation.
My therapist made me realize that was what I was doing on this blog. After publishing a post I’d obsess over how many views, how many likes or comments – and the catharsis was overshadowed by the compulsion to see how many gold stars I’d get or, even more embarrassing, how much pity. After that realization, I stopped blogging regularly too.

In a recent session with an energy worker, I was told that my spirit guides want me to start writing again. Since then, I’ve been asking myself what I could possibly write about, and who could I try to move with my words?

Yesterday I was meditating with my ass in the sand. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to meditate. I’ve been too far gone and overwhelmed with too many emotions, unable to hush my intrusive thoughts, even through a guided meditation. But yesterday, as I focused on inhaling the sun as each wave splashed against my lower body, and exhaling my despair as the waves and sand beneath me receded, I felt at peace for the first time in so long, and not because I was distracted. I was still, tears flowing down my cheeks and mixing with the salt water, and I whispered to the goddess of the ocean to cleanse me, de quitarme lo malo. To remind me that I too am like the ocean, and not just a victim of its ebbs and flows. The high and low tides of my life are not what define me. My soul gravitates to the moon. My undercurrent is powerful, even when I look calm on the surface. I too can glisten in the sun and carry so much darkness, 70% of which is undiscovered by anyone on the outside.

I wonder, though, if the ocean feels as tired as I do carrying all that strength. Does she also get depleted? When does the ocean rest? Is it after a storm? Yes, it must be. That’s another thing we have in common I guess.

As I sat there meditating, the wind blowing in my ears so violently I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts, she whispered to me, “write about this.” And so I did. Not for my teachers or my friends. Not for likes or comments. I wrote for her. 

Dear everyone that crosses my family’s path in public,

Yes, my son is 5’6, 190lbs and likes talking like a baby voice while making hand puppet gestures.

Yes, he might ask you random questions like “do you like stinky cheese?” or whatever comes to his mind, because he has no idea how to properly interact with people.

No, he doesn’t notice when you stand off to the side and whisper to each other about him.

But, yes, he does notice when you ignore him. When you are standing within earshot of him and he says “excuse me mister! Excuse me!” and he looks at me to come to the rescue, as I usually do when he wants to interact with strangers (as he so often does), how do I explain that you do in fact hear him and see him but choose to avert your eyes?

He doesn’t understand what it is about him that makes you uncomfortable.

He doesn’t mind that you make fun of him. As long as he sees you laughing, he does too.

As a mom who’s been struggling with managing his intense rage that has been taking over our lives, I hang onto every smile, every laugh. That’s all he wanted from you. That’s all I wanted as well.

You could have smiled and walked away afterwards, whispering whatever you wanted under your breath. But you could have given us a smile. A nod. A look in the eye.

He is autistic, not invisible.

Facebook reminded me of this memory today – a throwback to simpler times. Chilling with my baby boy and growing my sweet girl in my belly. Full of hope. Confident that things would get easier once my difficult pregnancy stopped wearing me down and I could be the mother I always dreamed of. So proud of all the milestones my son was crushing, like they were proof I was succeeding at motherhood.

You know what I noticed first in this picture? That he was wearing jeans. My boy, in jeans! For the past few years he can barely tolerate jogging pants.

Simpler times.

My life was going EXACTLY as I had planned it.

And then it didn’t. And the floor got stolen from beneath my feet and I spent 9 years desperately trying to regain the control I once (naively) believed I had over anything.

My sweet, baby cub. Mama bear had so much to learn about life back then.

I put on a pair of black pants this morning. It’s the first time I wore black since you’ve been gone, which is ironic, because I had a black outfit planned out for months, anticipating the day we’d receive that call.

But when we did, I didn’t feel the need to stand over your grave and say any final words. I said everything I had to say to you while you were still here. And I wasn’t going to stand there and wish you well, either. I couldn’t wish you harm though – that would make me a monster too. Instead, every time I think of you, I wish you what you deserve, and I remind myself that I’m not the one who gets to decide that.

My daughter asked me if I was sad that you were gone. She was wondering if she should be sad too, I guess. At that moment I hated you. I hated you because I was scared. And when you’re scared, it’s so easy to blame others. I realized that I was so scared that I wouldn’t be able to stop the cycle. I felt like in that moment, the words I said to my daughter would determine whether I passed on the toxicity and dysfunction another generation, because hiding the truth in order to protect the ones you love ends up doing that too. So I told her, this vulnerable and confused 9 year old, that I wasn’t sad to have lost the person you had become. I had been sad years ago, when I mourned the person I thought you were. The one who adored me, who found such joy in my children’s presence, and seemed to love them genuinely. I was sad to have lost the person who I shared so many happy childhood memories with, and who was admired by so many. I mourned that person a long time ago, even while looking straight at you and not recognizing the person looking back at me.

For the first time in my life, you looked at me with a piercing hatred. Your eyes were black as you spoke to me with a disdain I had never experienced before. It took me so long to reconcile how that could be, and the only answer I had is that you were not the same person. It was this “other” you that spewed venom all over me, and threatened to set me and my children on fire while we were sleeping. So no, I was not sad when I found out that this “other you” had crossed. I didn’t feel guilt either. My conscience is clear, and now you will face judgment for yours.

I stared at myself in the mirror in my black pants for a few minutes and proceeded to dress in black from head to toe, which is out of character for me. I didn’t do it out of mourning, but rather to prove to myself that I am also not running away from mourning you. Every time I cross a mirror today I will be reminded that I did in fact break the cycle of hiding truths for appearances, and I will hold my head high, with the integrity of knowing that I made hard choices. I can look at myself and be proud of my reflection. I don’t know if you were able to do that, but I realize it is not my burden to figure it out.

As I write this, I should be on a beach in Punta Cana, but I had to cancel that family trip because my daughter caught COVID. Unpacking the suitcases was hard but I tried to stay light and cheery and all “silver lining” for her sake, because she felt terrible for being the reason our trip got cancelled.

My mental health had been plummeting before that blow. Doctor changed my anxiety meds and I was seriously off balance and more anxious than I had been in years. Painfully so. And then, as it usually does when it hits a peak, it turned into darkness. Really inconvenient timing to be depressed when you find out you will have to care for your needy children 24 hours a day for the next 10 days. But I did it. My daughter went back to school today, healthy and happy. And I’m sitting here, alone and in silence, with a heart so heavy I can barely breathe.

I want nothing more than to shelter my kids from my my mental health struggles, especially during the holidays. I want to give them the magical, joyous, festive Christmas they deserve, and I have no fucking idea how I’m going to pull that off.

Santa!

Magic of Christmas!

But out of nowhere my daughter asks me about the Tooth Fairy.

“Mommy don’t lie.”

“You’re doing that smirk thing.”

“Mom! And the Easter Bunny?”

“Oh God, mom, Santa too!?”

It all happened so fast. Neither one of us was ready for that. It felt like all the twinkling lights and sparkly glitter just went dark. Like my heart.

“I can’t even look at the Christmas decorations anymore without being disappointed,” my 8 year old said with her usual drama and tears in her eyes.

Me too, baby girl.

None of this is tragic. Intellectually I know that. We are heathy, we have each other, we are fortunate enough to have the means to get our kids gifts they will be excited about (and yes, I assured her that there would still be a lovely gift from “Santa”). With some perspective, I realize that my reactions are not proportional to the actual size of the problem. But that doesn’t make it easier for me. I wish I could carry things better. I wish these little things didn’t feel so heavy. I wish I didn’t always feel like I will snap at any given moment if there is a minor setback. I wish my brain would give me a fucking break.

I wish that there was such a thing as a Christmas wish. Or at least for my daughter to believe there is. Because seeing the joy in my children’s eyes is what reignites my dimming light. So I need to find a solution and pull that joy out of somewhere on time for Christmas.

Some days, everything feels just so heavy. The rain pounding down on freshly fallen snow on a dreary grey day. Heavy.

Holding space for a slightly manipulative 8 year old who feels a bit unwell and wants to be blanketed with every ounce of your love and doting when all you are so desperate for is some space to catch your breath – heavy.

Doing the right thing and speaking your truth when you know it will fall on poisoned ears, heavy.

Wanting to control everything when you can barely control your own thoughts… the weight of everything that could possibly go wrong piling up on your already burdened chest, making every breath unbearably heavy.

And yet I carry the weight. It’s as much a part of me as the extra weight in my hips and my uncontoured face. A sign to some that I’ve let go. If only they knew, though, how badly I wish I could. Let go. Of everything that is so heavy.