Losing a Same-Sex Parent at a Young Age

“It's just like waking up,
In that second and a half,
The bliss of not remembering,
Before it all comes flooding back.” – Ben Folds

Yes, everyone dies. Yes, sometimes it is sudden. Yes, you are never prepared for it. At some point you lose someone you love, whether that someone is a friend, family or even a fur baby, it hurts and cuts deep and is so permanent.  

Here’s the part where my story may differ from some. I was 13 when I lost my mom. When you lose a parent as an adult you have memories to hold onto, you have a life. When you lose a parent as a teenager, pre-teen or child, you have scraps of memories. Little pieces you try to cling to and you hold on so tightly they tend to crumble to dust. Some days I can remember my mom’s laugh, other days her scent but most days, it’s a wash. I can tell you she dyed her hair a red-brown color and wore green contacts over light brown eyes. I can tell you she was a cardio queen and taught morning aerobics up until the day before she died. I can tell you she hated western medicine and doctors and believed in healing crystals which helped contribute to her downfall. I can tell you I loved her with all my heart. I can tell you it hurts everyday like a scab you can’t stop pick at and it festers and leaves a scar as a constant reminder. Some mornings I forget she’s gone, or that I’m grown up or that I grew up without her.

Most of the time I just feel guilty, because I don’t remember her, because I’m supposed to, because I hold a torch for someone I was only just beginning to know. My mother shaped me and molded me, even put me in the kiln but I wasn’t done yet, I wasn’t ready. I had just started puberty. I had no mother to walk me through hair and makeup, clothes and shaving, bras and tampons. Some people tried to help, but it was hard and there was pain in their eyes. My dad, tried, but he’s a man. If I ran out of deodorant or shaving cream he told me to use his. I spent one year of my teens smelling like Mennen without a bra and rarely shaven legs. I spent another year shaving everything including my stomach and chest because I didn’t know any better. My hair was a mess, my sense of style a disaster and it has taken me years YEARS to find the woman inside of me. To understand my looks, my skin tone, everything. Losing my mom meant losing my guidance and I had to feel my way through adolescence. My mother wasn’t there to tell me there’d be other boys or spend the night letting me vent with cookies and ice cream and movies. It was just me. I was angry for a long time. But it’s no one’s fault, there is no one to be angry at, my mother had a brain aneurysm. She had a blood bubble that slowly leaked into her brain. It amazes me how a little bit of blood can destroy a life, a family, a child.

Losing a same-sex parent at a young age means you don’t only lose your guidance, you don’t only live with guilt for not remembering, it means you also; don’t know how to respond or how to act. My husband told me at his father’s funeral, he didn’t cry and everyone thought this 11-year-old boy was brave. I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral and everyone thought I was a heartless, cruel child. I’ve cried many tears for my mother over the years. What people don’t understand is as a child you have no coping mechanisms, you have no clue what you should be doing. You are in SHOCK. The gravity of the situation doesn’t hit you for YEARS. As a kid you barely understand your numbers and ABCs let alone death. Something so permanent, so absolute and final how can you expect a child to understand that? I cry at the drop of a hat, over anything, commercials, movies, breaking a glass, but my emotions are bewilderment even to me. I could mechanically tell you about how my mother died and what I had to do to survive without a tear in my eyes and usually with a smile because I know you’re just curious. My emotions have been severed and reattached and so they don’t work like you’d expect. You could be pouring your heart out and I will be dry eyed and supportive but maybe we could be shopping for clothes and I just start crying for no apparent reason. I never learned how to express correctly, how to be appropriate. My mom’s funeral showed me that people judge you constantly and it also showed me that it’s okay because I won’t force feelings, I’m me and that’s all I can be.

Today marks 15 years since my mom passed away. She’s been dead longer than I even had time with her. Each year the anniversary hits me a different way. Some years I completely forget, other years I am overjoyed thinking about the time I did have with her, some years it hits me hard and I can’t contain myself and other years I remember but am neither happy nor sad, it’s just another day. Losing a parent at a young age turns them into a ghost, they are a pale comparison to the person they were or we think they were. They are in your peripherals. They are misty and ambiguous. There are only so many pictures or videos to remind you of someone you can just see the outline of, like a mirage. When the pictures run out, when you've memorized them, when you look at yourself in the mirror and try to pull traits, there's not much more you can do. Some days I remember her voice and think I hear it in mine. Today, I remember everything, the way she clicked her tongue, the way she lost her temper, the way she danced, the way she laughed, her perfume, her outfits, her walk, everything. Tomorrow I might not be so lucky, best to hold on to today.  

5K Bomb - The Joys of Running

When I first started running, I got hooked very easily. There is a lot out there now for beginner runners. Marching to the beat of my own drum, I made up my own training regime and worked towards a 5K trail run 3 months away. I started on the treadmill but then quickly moved to trails once the weather got better. I like trails – no car exhaust, no one could see me, I can even sing out loud and bring my dog without fear. A few weeks before the run I was racking up serious miles – from 5.5 miles to my shortest runs which were now 4 miles. A 5K seemed a piece of cake, a walk in the park, easily accomplished. The day of the race approached.

As true Leila style, I arrived almost too late. Missed warming up and just went for it. For a girl who actively avoids people SEEING her run the race was honestly a nightmare for me. I had a running partner but before the first mile was done she was gone, ahead of me by leaps and bounds. I couldn’t control my heart rate as people passed me. My pace slowed, I saw their steely determination and clenched jaws, I freaked out. My heart pounded in my chest to the point it hurt and I was gasping, wheezing and no matter what I did – lowered my arms, focused on my breath, unclenched my fists, concentrated on deep full breaths – the hammering would not stop. About half way through the run I stopped, walked, shook, almost broke down and cried. I was better than this. I could run 3.1 miles on my WORSE days, 3 miles wasn’t even my short running days anymore.

I started running again but another mile into it a panic attack set it and I stopped to let what I considered “better runners” pass me. The runners were not friendly, they did not say thank you, they didn’t try to encourage me to continue they just glared at me and ran on. I knew my running partner had already finished the race and all I wanted was a redo or at least to be finished. I walked most of the last leg, only beginning to run again when the trail leveled off and I had a good distance between myself and the people in front or behind me. My running friend returned to my side when she saw me near the finish line. I was struggling. I was losing it and the last few feet to the finish line I almost got pushed out of the way by a guy in tight breathable running attire.  

It was embarrassing, it was a defeat and it scared me. It messed with my head. Correction: I messed with my head. All the encouragement in the world is not going to change the fact that I ran a horrible race where my mind took over instead of my capabilities. When you train for something for 3 months, when you attempt to do something YOU KNOW you can do well because you have worked so hard for so long at it and you watch your mind butcher your skill and your training into chopped liver, it’s mentally exhausting. It is a slap in the face.

There is always the easy way out – I could make up excuses. Instead of admitting that the race/ME freaked me out and got in my head, I could throw out excuses. I didn’t sleep the night before, I was dehydrated, I didn’t warm up or stretch, my foot hurt, etc, etc. But that is not what happened.

Instead of letting myself enjoy the run. I forced myself to see it as a competition where everyone was passing me and staring at me and judging me. Instead of enjoying the beautiful sunshine, Pacific NW trees and streams, I tortured myself focusing on the miles to go and how far I’ve gone and if I was done yet.

This race honestly scared me so much I toy with the idea of not running anymore. I loved having a set goal to work towards. The 5K was a great tool to keeping me motivated. However, since races apparently cause me to mentally shit myself, other than setting personal goals the only motivation is me and to be honest she is being a shaking child in the corner who just saw her dog get hit by a car. 

Right now, I feel a lot like my Tutu (grandmother), she fell about a year and a half ago at the age of 89 and broke her hip and had to get hip replacement surgery on her 90^th birthday. She got back to walking very quickly and still walks and swims. She confides in me she is terrified of falling down again and she’s shied away from walking.

Yes, I am over thinking my run, yes I was over thinking the run while I was doing the run and yes I scared  myself. However, the mind is more powerful than the body and no amount of encouragement or “but you finished” is going to change the rule mind over matter. If I have a mental block with running there is no fix, there is no cure, there is no miracle drug or stretch that will work. I can run and tell myself the entire time to enjoy it, but I won’t believe it.

Defeat is a luxury, it is a choice. I’m allowing myself to choose defeat for my first race, but I am holding strong to the belief that I won’t allow myself to quit. I quit too many things out of selfishness and sloth. I refuse to quit something that is healthy for me, something that I enjoy. My plan? To run. Perhaps by myself for a bit. Perhaps I’ll run that same 5K trail to show myself I can. I will sign up for another race. If it turns out I can’t mentally handle a race, then I just won’t do them. It will take me awhile to get my confidence back. It will take a lot of work to figure out why my mind has such a big role in my running. But I’ll get there; believe me I’ll get there, even if I have to run a marathon (by myself) to do it.