Who Am I Mourning?

I’ve been wearing all black lately, starting maybe a month after Mommy died. Only when I leave the house though… like if I must be perceived it is in all black. Maybe my sneakers or shoes have color. A bit of gold for my wedding band. Even my glasses are clear with black bits.

When I look in the mirror and check for the ever present orange cat hair that seems to cling to my freaking spirit at this point, I laugh at my outfit and think to myself “I’m still in mourning, I can wear all black. It’s appropriate.” This always makes me laugh for some reason and I can leave the house with a smile on my lips (which are either naked or covered in glossy nonsense).

I thought I was mourning my mother. But I’m not entirely sure. To be abundantly clear, I have been absolutely devastated by her passing, her transition to whatever comes next. Her leaving me behind. However, in many ways I was prepared for it. Not completely because I doubt that’s actually possible. But… I had been living with the fear of my mother’s death for more than half of my life. The anxiety of it. Always assuming “this time is the time”, and it never was.

Until it was. 

Anyway, I think I’m mourning the version of myself that she took with me. She was one of four people who I felt obligated to explain myself to and to live up to certain expectations. Two of Four is no longer here mentally. I’m probably never going to live up to Three of Four’s expectations but we have an unspoken understanding of each other that kinda makes up for it. Four of Four truly does accept me as I am and as I am evolving. I don’t see that changing, but if it does I suppose we’ll have to part ways.

I was often crushed under the weight of my mother’s spoken and unspoken expectations. So many rules for existing in the world as child.

A Black child.

A Black girlchild at that.

She loved me, I know. She did her best by me and what she had to work with (her own set of expectations and limitations, possibly not being exactly who she was and wanted to be). Growing up I was “allowed” to be as much as myself as was socially acceptable. She loved my weirdness but she definitely called me morbid often. Which, honestly, was the pot calling the kettle black. My “morbidity” was just different from hers. I didn't always care about the same rules she did. If I bothered with them I only cared about them because she did.

I think I’m putting to rest who I thought I would be. There are so many different ways I thought life was going to be for me. Hindsight being what it is had me stuck on 4 or 5 specific moments that could have changed the trajectory of my life. Maybe. But who’s to say? Pandy still would have happened. My mom still would have died. The sun would have kept rising and setting. 

In addition to the all black, I also find myself shortening my first name in a way I have not historically used. Whats always been interesting to me is that neither of my parents use it, they address me by my second name and that’s always felt more like my “real” name. But my first name is still legally how I meet the world. 

Except now I don’t want the world to meet me. I don’t feel like being perceived. The shortened version of my first name feels like a curation. A distilling in the form of a pet name. The pronunciation of the shortened version is even shorter still. Like, I don’t want to be summoned. I don’t want people to labor under any assumptions that I’m going to try to meet their expectations. 

Maybe that’s who I’m mourning. That version of myself that I had to be. My mother took her away with her last breath and I’m only just now feeling it. But I'm starting to feel myself again as well.

All that to say, "Hi. I'm Jae."