I’ve never liked Mother’s day. Trying to please a mentally ill mother is no one’s idea of a good time. I did or didn’t become a mother, depending on how you want to define that word. My mother died.
I am surplus to requirements on Mother’s day.
It sits somewhere between the hell of heartbreak and the hades of a sandpaper based smugness. My mother wasn’t fantastic when she was here, Now she isn’t here. My reproductive abilities are sub par.
They don’t mean me when they talk about Mother’s. There’s no room for my kind of “mothering” in there. There’s neither room for the nurturing of various nieces and nephews nor for the various women who have nurtured me.
Mother is a word filling me with chaotic and clashing feelings. It’s messy. There are dead babies and ambivalence and second guesses. There’s no closure. There’s just this day.
And I don’t know what to do with it.
Surplus to my requirements.