For a long time I struggled with the idea of being “friends” with my mom. Maybe because we were closer to peers far sooner than we should have been, with no fault attributed to her or I; trauma simply pushes some of us to grow up too soon in an unreasonably quick manner. Much of my childhood was spent trying to stand up for my mom, while my teenage years were full of turmoil and fighting matches.
From raising twins while fighting to love herself in an abusive marriage, to being a single mom who managed to get two very strong-headed teenagers through high school and off to college… she gave so much of herself so that my brother and I could have a chance at life. She gave so much of herself. Subsequently, a confused, fearful, anxious and self-hating little me took advantage of what was sacrificed for me, and so much more. In facing all the times when she could not understand why I continued to harm myself, and watched me plow forward in life with a seemingly purely-self-destructive agenda, she never gave up on me, even when she felt like she had to.
Through suicide attempts and stints in rehab, marriage and divorce, successes and failures, I have never doubted that she would be there for me. Despite the majority of my decisions often being ones that she does not agree with, I know that she loves me.
My mom is the person in my life who shows up with flowers just because, who brings stuffed animals and soup when I’m sick and sends notes and cards just to remind me that I am loved. Even though I am at least a decade late; here I am, 28 years old and so thankful that my momma is also my friend.