Nineteen years ago on this day, when I was just barely eight years old, my mother ended her life with an impulsive and literal pull of the trigger.
November 25th, when I was younger, was a day that I missed her almost mercilessly, shedding tears every year, racked with sobs that shook my heart into my ribs, for nearly a decade. Today, the pain of not having my mom here is still ever-present-- contrary to popular belief of the uninitiated, that is not a void that can ever be completely filled-- but the pain of her loss has been very nearly replaced with the pain of all that I endured and lost in its wake.
Today, my heart aches in a way that never really stops, but I choose to reflect on where I've been and how far I have come.
I love my mom. She gave me life, she passed her magnetic and gregarious nature down to me, as well as the way my eyes crinkle when I smile. Like I said, I will always be all too aware of her absence, as those around me talk about, receive calls, draft texts, and see their own parents. I will always love her. But in this last year, I have gained a new emotion that I did not experience toward her at all in the eighteen years prior.
Anger.
Almost anyone who knows me thinks first of my strength and resilience. This is not an incorrect appraisal of Ash, but what you have observed has most likely been around 90% facade. Strength is not taking everything in stride and just being okay with it; it's only partially endurance. It's mostly an ability to feel what you feel, which I have lacked for most of my life when it comes to pain. When you have spent an enormous portion of your life fighting to survive in any aspect, you learn that emotions have to come later. You can't stop to take a breath or process what has happened when you still have to fight. You learn stoicism when your heart feels like it's surrounded by razors that on fire but you have to keep moving anyway.
I say this because what I'm about to say may come as a surprise to you.
The last nineteen years broke me.
