The Home A Mother Built. And A Middle Daughter That Tore It Apart.

 

I've been thinking about Ma a lot, lately. I'm not sure why. I guess because I have been working on clearing stuff out, again. The only things left of her in her bedroom are the bed she never slept on and the recliner that she was always in. 

Obviously, the recliner has changed over the years. The one in there now is one we managed to get for her a few years before she died. She was having trouble getting up out of the old one she had - which now lives in the living room and my dolls love it. So we looked into options and actually found a place that donated this one to her. It sits higher than most recliners and the seat lifts up so that she could get up easily. 

The bed, on the other hand, has been there a very long time. The mattress was only slept on a few times - usually by one of her grandchildren, possibly my younger sister, and myself for a few days when I first moved back here. Other than that, it's purpose was to act as a very flat couch for those of us that wanted to sit and talk to her. 

Anyway, everything else is gone. I finished cleaning things out in May. My older sister and I did the closet a few weeks ago. Its almost completely done, now. Honestly, I have been carrying a lot of guilt about it all. With everything I get rid of, I feel like I am erasing her. 

I have kept the bedroom door closed almost constantly for two years. At first, it was because the room felt too much like her and I couldn't handle that. Now the room barely feels like her. Turns out, I can't handle that either. The door only opens when I need to go in there to get clothes, as that is where mine are now. 

I have made a lot of changes in the rest of the house, over the last two years, though. 

Since coming back after my last relationship ended and then staying to take care of her when she got sick, the living room has been my domain. Quite literally, it became my room. But it was still her house, so I made very few changes. However as soon as she was gone, I changed the entire room. I moved the furniture around, I hung up pictures of my favorite things, and I painted quotes from movies, shows, and musicals that inspire me. 

I really felt a lot of guilt about that. As I did when I took pictures off walls, cleaned out kitchen and bathroom cabinets, replaced the shower curtain, and rearranged where things went in the kitchen. So many times I would look up and ask her to understand that I was not trying to erase her memory. 

But I had to make changes. It was the only way I could continue to live in this house and maintain any shred of sanity. Sometimes I think she would hate the changes I've made, especially the living room. Other times, I think she would be very amused and maybe even a bit interested in the quotes.

 I'm pretty sure she would hate the flags. She did not like to talk about my sexuality. And when I referred to myself as Queer, she didn't like that. I did try to make her understand, but she didn't seem to be able to wrap her head around it. Just like everything else about me, she just couldn't understand. So I tried not to talk to her about it.

As I have been on this self discovery journey the last couple months, I have thought about her even more. I know she would be confused by the discoveries I have made about myself. Outside of that, I'm not sure how she would feel. 

My relationship with her was always complicated. She never did understand me. Not when I was a child, not when I was a teenager, and not me as an adult. I'm not putting her down or insulting her. It's not her fault. I was always weird and different. I can't count how many times teachers and therapists told her I was bohemian and an individual and that I 'marched to the beat of my own drummer.' But it was a lot. 

Knowing what I know about me now - the aromantic and asexual and autistic stuff - it's definitely not her fault. I do wonder, had I received the autistic diagnosis as a child, if that would have made things different. But it does no good to live on 'what if's'. Life went the way it was meant to. 

She definitely didn't get my humor. Ma was much more sensitive than I and she never knew how to take my sarcasm. Of course, that is true for most people. 

There were many times that I used this to my advantage. I would tease her, admittedly, mostly to see what kind of reaction I would get. And it was always different. Sometimes she would get irritated, sometimes she would get mad, sometimes she would roll her eyes. Every single one of these amused the hell out of me and I would tell her just how adorable she was - which would make her irritation all the more. But my favorite moments, were when I would make her laugh. For me, those moments of laughter were tiny moments of victory. 

If you knew my Mom, you knew she could be a hard woman to make laugh. It wasn't always that way. But in the last few years of her life, she was tired and sick and it was all taking a hard toll on her. Which made the moments I made her laugh that much more special. 

So now, here I am, systematically getting rid of 44 years of building a home and almost 71 years of a life. And I am having to keep it together and be strong, which I was already doing to just keep living here. 

 Sometimes I wonder if I have truly been able to grieve. If having to continue to be here - where I lost her - having to maintain the strength to do what needs done, if grief completely passed me by. And, if that's true, will it hit me when I am no longer here?  

With every area that is emptied, I know I am that much closer to leaving this home for good. This home that we moved into in 1980. Just 3 days before my older sister turned 9. A month after I turned 4. 

A time when it was Mom, Grandma, Aunt Collette, Lina, and myself. 5 females in a 2 bedroom apartment. Poor Grandma, lol. And later, Collette and Grandma moved out and my younger sister, Cheryl, joined us.

But, if things continue on the path they are now, sometime in the next year and a half, this will no longer be my home. It will no longer be our home. All those memories will be just that - memories. 

After all these years of this being the home of the Jones/Russell girls, there will be someone new here. A new family will start their lives here. And they will never know the history that happened within these walls. Well, not the history of the Jones/Russell girls, anyway. Unless they read the book that I will, no doubt, publish someday.  

Because one day - soon - the story of this home will be told. The story of the family that lived here for over 40 years will be told. 

The story of that middle daughter - stuck in a village she didn't belong in - will be told. And the story of that village, and what it did to her, will be told.