She loves like prairie grasses...

Two long fucking years.
Talk about a Memorial Day.
I’m half way around the world on a fabulous vacation with wonderful people.
I’m so blessed but all I can think about today is how much I miss my mom. 

I would be nothing without her.
Happy Mother’s Day. Sincerely. 

I know that I sound pretentious, like a spoiled victim, but please trust me:

It’s much, much easier to cry over something when I have mascara on; when I know that I have a mask to fight through before anyone has to deal with my actual inability to articulate myself. I’ve never wanted to self-harm so badly in my life; in at least four years.

I’m really sick of everyone asking me what I’m going to do for Mother’s Day when I’ve blatantly told them about my mom. (Right now, it’s looking like nothing but home videos with red velvet cake and red velvet cake ice cream.) The “Your Mom” jokes don’t help, either. I’m not “too sensitive.” I’ve fucking worked on that. I’m working very hard. It’s barely been two years and after trusting you with what really happened; after making sure that you know how I feel, it’s like you flaunt it in my face in public. I see the way that you look directly into my eyes, like missiles, to most certainly take advantage of my situation so that you can gain popularity in unstable cocktail circles. Yes, my type I diabetic, agoraphobic, self-harming, epileptic, suicidal mother is great for sourcing out as the butt of your jokes. 

In the last conversation that I had with my mother, I was driving in my car and she didn’t give me the chance to say that I loved her. I was supposed to come see her for a few hours and she turned me down, saying that she didn’t feel well. It was like she killed herself with out knowing that I loved her. I don’t think that she’ll ever really know; that she ever really knew. 

She’d be so ashamed of me now: drunk and sad and still mourning. I’m still fucking blogging because it’s faster than writing by hand while still letting me feel somewhat anonymous; because this conveniently fits into my mourning lifestyle. My entire career choice was inspired by her and I’ve never found anything more fulfilling. I just desperately want to be good at something she’d be proud of. At this rate, I’m not sure that I ever will. I’m not asking for pity from others, because her opinion was the only one that ever mattered.

Anyone who has a mom, grandmother, aunt or mother figure in their lives shouldn’t just send a Hallmark card or flowers or bother to pick up the fucking phone and call them. You need to tell them that you love them, plainly and clearly, and if you do, make sure that they know it. Make sure that they know. You’ll regret it the rest of your life otherwise.