I made a lot of noise today. I talked A LOT. I cried a little. I had a limited amount of time  alone with my mom before she flies back home, and I apparently wanted to make it count. Some of it was simple wanting to share and connect. Some of it was wanting to feel more seen and understood. And somewhere beneath all of my blather, ringing like a low chime, was this desperate yet annoyingly vague need to heal something. It was like if I happened on the perfect string of words, if they came magically tumbling out my mouth in divine harmony, time would stop, the world would pause, and The answer to fix Everything would come into being in the space between us. I am not suggesting that it makes sense. Only that I was aware it was there and that I was talking over it.

Fix, fix, fix, fix. Heal, heal, heal, heal. The truth is, it’s all my way of saying I don’t like who I am and I’d like to be turned into someone else. Please. And now.

It’s so easy to blame my mother for my problems. It’s easy to look down the range of years that stretch from here to my childhood, to look past Depression to Alcoholism to Eating Disorder to Suicidal Ideation to Shame and Self-loathing, and to find my mother standing tall at the start of It All. It’s even easy to then turn on my adult self and start judging and shaming myself for being a thirty-something still blaming Mom for my lot in life. Then more judging and shaming for even thinking that I have a lot for which to blame someone. It degenerates from there, and I’m left wishing that I could live out the remainder of my years curled in the fetal position in the corner of a darkened room staring at a spot on the wall.

It’s so much harder for me to just accept that life is uncomfortable. As long as there is someone to blame, there is something to fix, and hope that fixing it will change me. I say the right words, my mom and I share some tears and a hug, and snap, poof, bam! I’m someone else. Someone who is eternally (inwardly) comfortable. I actually buy into this as being possible. Every day. All day long. I actually exert energy and a great deal of thought working toward this. I mean, I actually believe that I’m working toward this.

Even now, even writing this, there’s this part of my mind off in the corner chewing over my tumultuous past with my mom and it just cried out, “The key is forgiveness!” All I need to do is truly forgive her and in doing so, forgive myself and snap, poof, bam! I’m someone else. Someone who is eternally (inwardly) comfortable.

The saddest part of the truth for me to realize right now is that it really has nothing to do with my mom or my relationship to her. It has nothing to do with love. It’s just about me wanting to be comfortable. That seems like such a poor thing to have as a driving force for my life.