The loss of an identity

It seems like it's been awhile since I've felt the weight of my mother's absence (hence my long break from this blog). But as I've got closer to Braddock's due date, I can't help but feel these deeper longings for my mother to be here. These feelings have particularly came to me on evenings I have been walking along the ridge by our apartment. The cool wind would be blowing on my face and I would close my eyes and see an ocean. I could hear my mother telling me the story of the night she went into labor w/ my sister (her firstborn). She had walked the beach all day and all night... and then my sister came. As I would walk, I could just picture my mom, so serene, so peaceful, so content... just walking, walking, and walking... all alone on the shores of Tybee Island. I couldn't stop the tears streaming down my face as I walked. I just miss her so bad. I miss her stories and I miss how she would have been here for me in these moments of me becoming a mother. I miss how she would have "mothered" me and I miss just being her daughter.

Having these reminiscent moments of missing her made me think of a specific chapter in Jerry Sitser's book: A Grace Disguised. I've mentioned the book here before. The chapter discusses the loss of identity after death. It is appropriately titled, "The Amputation of the Familiar Self". As I read back through it, I felt compelled to share what was speaking to me specifically...

Catastrophic loss is like undergoing an amputation of our identity. It is not like the literal amputation of a limb. Rather, it is more like the amputation of the self from the self. It is the amputation of the self we once were or wanted to be, the self we can no longer be or become.

The self I once was, this familiar self, cries out for them, like nerves still telling me that I have a leg or an arm, though only a stump remains. It's as if I just woke up in a new house after having gone to bed the night before in familiar surroundings, and I keep tripping over furniture and walking into walls. It is a new world for me, but I act as if it were the old one.

My awareness of this amputation of the self comes to me like a reflex. Even after three years of widowhood, my psyche is still programmed to look for people who are no longer there. I receive good news and want to call Lynda to tell her about it.

I remember doing this a lot after mom died. I would see someone who had similar hair, hands, nails, body build, etc... and I would LONG for her. I would long for them to be her. I wanted to tap someone on the shoulder and have them turn around as my mother. I would want to grab a hand and pretend it was hers. These seemingly little things my heart would long for... would ache for. These reminders of my mother.

There was a time last year when I worked a particularly difficult job for 2 months. Every single night as I was driving home from work, my immediate response was to call mom. It didn't matter that I wanted to call her the night before and tell her about my day and ask for advice... then get that sharp reminder that I could not call her. I would still have that automatic response the day after to call her. It was as if something deep inside knew I needed her and it didn't matter that she wasn't there... I still needed her. I was a daughter needing her mother.

The limb they lost still announces its presence through pain. For those who have endured irreversible loss, phantom pains of their former identity may linger for a long time.

And I'll take this a step further and add that it may linger forever. I will always, always miss being "mothered" by my mom and miss being a daughter. I don't think that will ever go away. It has been soo long since I have let my heart miss her. I have shut down that part of me b/c it truly does hurt so much. But I can't shut down those phantom pains forever... those pains that indicate a part of me that is missing. Pains that indicate my need for something, someone, some role... I was good at being her daughter - and she was great at being my mother (especially as we got older).

But the self I once was cannot find its old place to land. It is homeless now.

This is how I feel now. The self I once was (a daughter) feels forever lost... I don't care how old you are - you never stop longing for your mother. My grandmother is in her 70s and she still talks about her mother longingly, whom she lost when she was only 22 years old (like me). There's just this special role that only mothers can play in your life... and as I'm becoming a mother and feeling all these incredible feelings - I'm also filled w/ all these questions and yearnings for my mom. The daughter in me cries out for her to be here, especially in these moments. I long to share them w/ her as I know she longs to share in them w/ me.