It’s been a week today since my mother died, upstairs in her power recliner, just the nurse and I watching her slip away. I made her her last meal the night before, gave her her last medications that morning.
Almost ten years of full time care giving to aging parents, starting in March 2003. And it’s been almost four years since I actually saw myself, actually took the time to reveal my visage.
And now, somehow, I have to find my own voice again.
I know what this blog was when I started it in November 2005, seven years ago. It was a private place to speak out loud what I had no one else to hear.
I know what this blog is now, after a year and a half of neglect. It has turned into a vessel of a few posts with hot button titles that people like to offer comments on, out of context of anything else on here. The last comment was some fool who wanted to explain that most transpeople were idiots because they didn’t spend enough time and money to assimilate correctly, to have their body femaled enough so that the normies could let them pass unchallenged. How that approach disempowers the voice of those with unique and profound trans histories, well, not engaged. I haven’t approved that comment, haven’t approved the last 17 comments. Just stopped.
But I know what my father wanted for me as he spent his last six weeks in hospital. He wanted me to speak for me. He thought it was time. I knew that I couldn’t do that until my mother passed, but she called death to herself as fast as possible, and went a month later.
And now I am alone. I have a sister, who dropped the ball on estate planning, neglecting my mother’s wishes by getting an updated will that would have respected my decade here, not doing any asset transfers before death, not working with any professionals. It’s a bloody mess.
But it is also my fault, as I took responsibility for others, became enmeshed, and didn’t take control of my own life. The conflict of who I knew myself to be and who my Aspberger’s parents needed, well, just a huge gap.
Now, though, my challenge is to clean up the enormous mess they left me and to discover who I am, ten years older, ten years more decrepit, ten years gone, ten years whatever. Dear Sarah says she misses my voice. I assure her that no one misses it more than I do.
That doesn’t seem simple and easy. I have to look in the mirror again, have to try and create a public persona more in harmony with my inner self, one that allows me to connect with others on a deeper level, to give my gifts and to accept my rewards.
And that seems, well, nigh impossible.
And, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. I have given a lot of love, amen.
Now to trust that what goes around comes around, and that there is abundance in the world for the real me.
And nothing to do with people who come to this blog to argue their hobbyhorse point of how others are wrong, avoiding the complex and beautiful nuance of messy humanity.