There are some changes on the horizon

It’s been a while. Then again, that cycle of summer processing seems to be upon me. In my defense, I’ve also been trying to put off processing through a few recent developments. Prop 57 has impacted my mother’s sentence, as well as a few programs she’s involved herself in over the last decade. It looks like she’s out on early release. Nine months from now actually, give or take. I thought we had another couple years.

I don’t really know how to feel about it yet. I’m not as freaked out as I thought I would be but that’s also because it feels like I’m sitting in the road watching a truck come straight for me. Obviously, that’s mildly dramatic. That truck could be a figment of my imagination.

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I think the most profound aspect of this news that has me boggled is how this will affect my art. For most of my life, my writing, art, and other coping mechanisms were populated with prison themes: time, loss, abandonment. I never had to dip my pen in different ink.

I’ll be honest, I’m pretty sick of dealing with prison themes. I never wanted to let her life choices define my own but I also couldn’t deny myself the experience of them. What a weird, tangled web I found myself in.

The good news is she’s more freaked out than I am. I’m trying my best not to have sympathy for her but I can’t help it. It’s going to be really weird for her. When she went in, dial-up was common place and people still used AOL.

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The transition process is going to be shocking to her system. She claims to be all hardened and whatnot (and I’m sure she is), but I know there are going to be a LOT of midnight phone calls where she’s crying and frustrated because something in her house keeps making a noise or she can’t figure out how to listen to a voicemail or something. I expect this.

I will also not be her metaphorical crying shoulder. I will be a helpful daughter on my own terms, with lots and lots of boundaries. I might finally be able to start throwing away some of her mail.

My sister just told me she’s been throwing her letters away. I’ve kept every single one, including envelopes, for this whole damned sentence. I sort of just want to burn them but I feel like there’s a really good art project in store for them. Hopefully with a different theme.

Does this mean that I can give myself permission to stop fixing all the broken pieces? I’ve long known I’m awesome and been grateful for the challenges she’s thrown my way but I’m still a product of my circumstances. I’m actually sort of concerned for my own children. They won’t have nearly the amount of depth I do, which both worries and delights me.

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She’s going to make it to my college graduation.

It’ll be the first graduation she’s ever made it to (besides elementary school which doesn’t really count). I’m actually really happy about it.

God, I hate writing about this stuff. It’s all so damned heavy and while necessary, I can feel myself sounding like a broken record. I’m just ready for it to be over. Maybe I’ll actually go back into my darkroom again. Maybe I’ll shoot some film again.

I swear, if she tries to bake me cookies and do my fucking laundry though I’m going to lose it.

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Spring Cleaning

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For several years it was really hard to get through all the letters. Most people relish the idea of receiving snail mail and it’s because it’s probably pretty rare nowadays to correspond with paper and pen. Now I let them pile up until there’s a decent sized stack and subsequently read through the cards, letters, and sift through the pictures I can’t display because they’d stir up too many unwanted questions.

When I used to go off to sleep away camp for those two brief weeks every summer, I checked for letters everyday. Before my mom went away, I think I got a handful over the course of 6 years, most of which from my dad.

Today, I have bins and boxes filled with letters and envelopes (because I keep almost all of them). I have hand stitched purses dyed with pink koolaid. I have really old plastic baggies of cakes, so far crushed that they resemble brightly colored cookies, from all the birthdays she sent them to me.

I have more bibles than I can ever need, all dog-earred, annotated and highlighted. She’s converted a few times so there are more than a few I don’t know if ill ever flip through. I have scripture cutouts, pamphlets, and bookmarks. More bookmarks than a Barnes & nobles. I could quite literally start making money selling them wholesale to various religious sects around town.

For a few years she sent me these plastic cups. We use them for cat food and other random tasks now but for a little while, I treasured them. They were detailed with little logos or phrases that she paid other women to do for her and in exchange she traded food or coffee or sandals. Every holiday I had to tell her through gritted teeth, which new design I’d like. I have tinker bell, surfers, cars, basketballs, footballs. I think we both ran out of ideas eventually.

I used to keep all of her clothes. My mother had a walk in closet, so there were QUITE a few items. They smelled like her perfume that mixed in with the smell of cedar like the big door framing the room. I’ve since thrown most of them out. Her old living room couch still sits in our yard, moldy from months of rain.

I have boxes for the jewelry she sends me. The only things I actually use. She sends beaded bracelets and earrings but the earrings are so big and dangly I’d never wear them. The bracelets are delicate and beautiful.

My brother doesn’t wear the ones she sends him but I keep them secretly and add them to the boxes. I never realized I’d have so much stuff I could never throw away. 

 

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