I cried my eyes out in the shower. I noticed the mole in between my breasts when the water hit my chest and it made me think of mom. My mother and sister also have a slight freckle here, the same place as me.

I’ve been thinking about my mom all day. I have to make some peace with her. With whatever part of her is in me. It will never go away, and I will never lose it. She is one of the two who brought me into this world. I do not believe that I’m here on some fluke. I am not something that she didn’t want.

I have to talk to her and find some footing for myself in our connection. I have to accept what the reality of our relationship is. All I know is that I’m 26 years old and in the shower today I sobbed my eyes out because I miss my mother. I want my mom. I need her. Even if it’s too late and I don’t expect things to change because I’ve been expecting it so long that I am sick of waiting for a Godot that is never coming, and never was. I had some moments with my mom. When I was just learning to ride a bike, she took care of my scraped knees. She would sit me on the toilet seat and warn that it would sting–she did that thing where you blow on the hurt, lightly. When my mom worked nights I would lay beside her in bed as she fell asleep and teach her random words in french. We kept cracking up at her accent attempts.

She didn’t teach me how to shave my legs, and I handled my first period by myself. She only came to one soccer game and didn’t understand the rules. She had her own things going on, even when I was growing up. I would dress myself and go to elementary school and tell lies to my classmates because I wanted her attention so bad–I sought it out in other things. She wasn’t there when I needed her. When I had a miscarriage we talked on the phone, but she sounded defeated, and offered no real words. She has no idea how bad I wanted her to stop drinking, stop dating these men that she could easily walk on or that could stomp on her. I fought with her and screamed at her to get her shit together. I have no idea how she feels about things–what her belief system is like. I know she loved her mother and took care of her during all eleven years of her alzheimers, so that grandma wouldn’t have to go to a nursing home. I know that it broke her and I know that there’s nothing I can do about that. I know that she has her demons, and her depression. I can relate, which is what makes it so hard to feel so disconnected from her. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want her to be like that. But here we are.

I’m an adult now. I’ve had my one good pout. Now I have to reach out to her, before it’s too late and there is nothing there to reach out to but disjointed memories and absence. The vacancy will not be filled, but I can show her what a good person her daughter is–I want her to be proud. I want her to know that I’m surviving, and that I will always be a part of her, and I will honor that by being the best me that I can. I can’t worry about it being enough. It will just have to do.

I don’t know who to talk to and even if I did I’m not sure what to say.