Today after school is out my son gets to come spend time with me. I miss him like the trees miss the rain, like the earth misses the moon, skies dark without him, only little pricks of starlight to find my way. Every other weekend means twenty-six weekends a year and a few holidays. It seems ridiculous, fifty-two days a year isn’t nearly enough, even with some holiday time thrown in.
I haven’t cried in weeks. The medicine is helping. But thinking about him stings my throat and eyes until I have water coursing down my cheeks. It’s an odd feeling, to be honest. For over a year since leaving my Stardust I’ve cried multiple times a day, and thought it normal. Since getting help with the depression crying is an anomaly. I’m glad for the calmer waters. Yet even happier to know I can feel this deeply still on the medication. I’m glad I asked for the lowest dose possible, so I can still touch the depth of my soul without stretching too far. My toes still like to tickle the surface of the water now and then, after all.
When I left the cult and my marriage they were all I knew. I had no home after I made it clear I wasn’t going to continue being a Jehovah’s Witness. My parents tried to help me many times, even allowing me to move into an RV with no running water, helping me build a cottage, get another old RV for $2,000 to put on their property so that my son could have some balance when he was with me. But I was drinking still, and made poor choices, leaving that security behind. Over and over again. I don’t like to ask them for help anymore, because I threw it away so many times. And well, the shunning.
When I left the marriage his father remarried my best friend in less than a year after the divorce was final. She was my best friend, had known my son from birth, been around to watch him grow for his first five years, I knew that she would be the best stepmother he could ever find, and so I didn’t fight it. I discounted myself. Told myself that he’d be better off without me. That when he was a teenager that he would be so involved with his friends and building his life that he wouldn’t need me. I pushed him away as I pushed everyone way. To protect them from me. I knew he’d be fine when I moved to Idaho with my wifey. He didn’t need me anymore, he was a teenager after all, it would be an easy change.
But it wasn’t. I sit here with hot heavy tears streaming down my face because I saw how very NOT okay he was. He went to therapy, he developed separation anxiety because of the choices I made. I texted and called him daily to try to help, but there is nothing that will replace the love of his mother. Even if I told myself he was better off without me.
The guilt remains. I’m back within reach of him, only fifteen minutes away, and I won’t leave him again until he’s an adult. I know now that even then he will need me still, in his own way. Even with life beginning and exciting new independence in his grasp at last.
He holds my hand when we watch movies and fun shows that he picks. Tucks my forearm under his chin so my hand can lay across his shoulder. When he speaks I feel it in his chest, booming a deep tenor blending with baritone, a voice so different than he had when he was little. And still the same boy. He’d fall asleep like that if I let him, cuddled close but only touching my forearm, as if it’s his safety line and favorite cuddle blanket. He’s fourteen and the beauty of his soul overpowers me on a regular basis, his gentleness is palpable. I tell him it’s his greatest strength. I hope he remembers and carries it with him always.
Getting sober two years and seven months ago changed everything. My mind is clear to see what is truly important. I guard our time selfishly, like a mama leopard with her young I purr when he is with me, my fingers trembling with love for him as I brush his hair back from his face. I’ve no need for any other companion, because he is my focus. Giving him the best mom I can be, FINALLY, is all I want from my days. Gifting him tenderness and closeness of the kindred kind is more fulfilling to me than any lover. I joke that I don’t date because I “date” my child, but it’s deeper than that. I’m selfish with my deepest love now, and know what a precious thing it is. Has always been. Even when I doubted my value in my own eyes and other’s.
I’m not perfect. I still crave time to myself, and know he does too, and that he needs time alone to be a teenager far from his mother. Nights when he’s with me, those precious few fifty-two nights a year, we sit and watch movies together or play chess after a day spent outdoors. When I was drinking I’d tell myself he was fine and didn’t need my time or attention, that he was happier without me entertaining him. I was so very wrong. And I fight that inclination still. It comes from a place that was born in me as a child, being excluded and pushed away by my “worldly” peers until I preferred to be alone anyway. My havens were rooms full of books, or copses of trees far away from that humanity that causes so much pain.
But he needs me. And I’m learning I need him too. Not as his mother, but as someone who genuinely loves him and treasures the limited time we get together. I gift him acceptance and love no matter what he chooses to be. I’m finally seeing that he’s been gifting me the same thing, and I just didn’t know what it looked like. Only twice have I had a love like this, with no agenda or demand for reciprocity. He just loves and accepts who I am with a devoted flame that is everlasting. He always has, I just didn’t see it for what it was, I didn’t know what it looked like.
I had to give him unconditional love to recognize that he held it for me in his hands this whole time, and was simply lifting them to me so I could find it.
A Burd in Flight 