Of Love & Loss

by Shayna Cristy-Mendez

My body feels it before my brain can ever make sense of it; words always fail in their attempt to capture the sense of abandonment that comes with losing a parent to drug addiction. That particular sense of abandonment also tends to be exaggerated when their death falls on your birthday. As it happens, death has a habit of being a real foot to the groin of celebration.

When I was little, I used to write stories where all the mothers were dead; I think a part of me always knew she was never mine to keep. However, by dying when she did, she would become mine to keep for a lifetime. Her death is intertwined with my existence. I exist, and it brings me back to her death. Her death is something I’ll carry around for the rest of my life. I used to blame her for that, but I can honestly say the feelings have shifted over time. Accidents happen. For as wounded as I’ve felt, I now realize there’s one fate worse than having a parent die on your birthday: being the dead parent.

What did I know of love or loss before I loved and lost you? — It’s a question that may just outlive us both. I know I’ve loved her, and I know I have lost her. I also know, this was a mutual experience; We exist in love and loss.

I’ve run circles around my grief and spent more time in my anger than I’m comfortable admitting. The Why, has always trailed me, needy, desperate, and grasping, like a child lost in the crowd. I’ve broken down in public. I’ve cried in cafes — the empty ones as well as the busy, early in the morning and late into the night. I’ve raged at her ghost and her god. I’ve made a mess of things while reeling in the loss.

I’ve hated her, but mostly, I have loved her.

I have loved her so much, in fact, there were times I thought it could breathe the life back into her, and when that didn’t work, I cried until the tears wouldn’t fall anymore and the salt all but made the Earth barren.

Despite everything, I have arrived at a place of understanding. The Why, is now allowed to hold my hand. We’ll get through this, I say to it. I think I understand what to do now. Though, I’m still not sure if I truly believe the words. Even when they’re spilling from my own mouth, absent of self help books or stranger’s good intentions. Even when the words are fully my own.

I can remember a time when I used to see the world through my own lens; The world didn’t just happen, it happened to me. As I’ve gotten older, I realize that the world really does just happen, to all of us. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second.

We persist. We live on.  Accidents happen every day. My loss is as much as anyone else’s. Yet, in the end, true and irrevocable loss is a fate solely shouldered by the dead.

 

Some time around Thanksgiving 

(Early 2000s):

 

The smell of herbs hung in the air. The atmosphere was layers deep, thick enough to swim through — an unending void of butter, simmering meats, and decadence. All too holiday. Only, the coziness of it all was slammed between the unwelcoming embrace of my grandmother’s ultra modern home. Black granite and white tile greeted me at every corner. I remember feeling the cold reach out to touch me.

I looked around, eye level with a sea of torsos. A hem of a dress brushed against me, perfume drifting away with the woman’s shadow. The thought crossed my mind briefly, Where was my mother?

The world was buzzing with indistinct chatter from all around: the occasional jovial laugh, a scattered yell of indignation, an uncle yelling about politics. Everything you’d expect from a Thanksgiving party. However, my mom was no where to be found. Until she was, emerging from the bathroom, different.

I was about seven at the time. Too old not to notice, too young to actually understand.

When we finally got around to dinner, Mom was nodding off in her dinner, her blonde hair occasionally getting caught in it. Her hair reminded me of a Barbie’s back then: long, beautiful, and platinum. She looked like a Barbie too — beautiful and emaciated.

“She’s stoned out of her mind.” My grandmother’s voice a low mumble behind a flash of red lips and a frown. “Why does she always do this?”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Stoned. It was a word I had heard a lot, but never knew the meaning to. It was also a word I would eventually come to know, intimately.

Back then, the word Stoned always managed to annoy me. The anger nipped at my heels, silent and ready to collapse in on itself. Stoned, it always sounded very negative, and my mother was a lot of things but never a burden. At-least not to me.

*

Like most children born in the nineties, I grew up with Christianity. The saying, Do all things unto the glory of God, was a phrase I had managed to take to heart. Except, instead of worshipping a man on a cross, I had decided that my mother was my God; Everything I did, I would do for Her. To this day, this is a character fault I still cannot rid myself of. In fact, I am doing it right now.

Silly, tender, and sometimes a little too far away for comfort, She was The Mystic in touch with all things beautiful. Where most people would have felt the need to temper my often chaotic imagination — She, the guru at the top of the mountain, had a habit of living amongst that wild landscape with me. We built worlds together, running beside buzzing ideas, pithy strings of words, unruly crayon drawings, fields of paper pads, and uncontrolled runs of laughter (as well as sentences).

When She was sober, we would hunker down in the safety of our tiny two person universe, until the outside world would eventually come crashing in. Like a sandcastle built too close to the sea, the tide always eventually came and separated us. She would be there one minute and gone the next, and She was never sober for long.

In between bliss there are trenches overflowing with agony. The Why, has always been hard to pin down. Especially, when it comes to Heroin. There’s a million reasons Why, and non of them are ever enough to explain away the pain — Hers, or mine.

There is only the concept of trying. We try to make sense of what we can, and we stumble on. The answers in front of us must be enough. For now at-least, until something better comes along.

Loving someone in the throes of addiction also comes with a lot of Maybe’s: Maybe it was because of this. Maybe it was because of that. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if you didn’t — Maybe if you did. Maybe, it’s as much of my fault as it is yours.

Maybe, becomes the world you inhabit, expanding and stretching to accommodate all the uncertainty. Until the pressure becomes too much, which it always does, and your world can no longer expand with the unpredictability that has become your life. So, as you finally step away, gawking at the beast of Maybes about to rip at the seams, you come to a realization. This thing, whatever it is, is not sustainable. 

The Maybes have grown into something beyond natural concern. They can not be reasoned with, remedied, or consoled. They have surpassed mere phobia and become your waking existence. They have wreaked havoc on your nerves and the way you move amongst the world. Now, people not only feel sorry for you, but they also think you are strange — or stuck up — because despite your best efforts, you no longer remember how to move or think like the average human being.

This hulking, monstrous, bloated balloon animal of Maybe’s, is not sustainable — no matter how many times you try to convince yourself you have a right to all that worry. Your terror is not going to save the person you love; They have to do that for themselves.

Eventually, your horrible balloon of Maybes is going to burst. Your life is going to collapse under whatever comes gushing out, and if you stick around to watch, you are going to be crushed along with everything else.

You can not live your life paralyzed by fear any more than you can love someone, wholeheartedly, while preparing for their death. It is just a fact: loving someone in the throes of addiction comes with a lot of maybes. You can not live your life in those maybes without killing yourself. If you want to make it out of this alive, you can only live in the now.

The Now, is the place where you can still hold the person you love — even when they’re slipping from your arms. The Now, is where hope lives, even when it seems worlds away.

As long as there is still the Now, the person you love is right there in front of you. Struggling, yes… but still very much alive, despite themselves.

 

Some Time In The Past, (was once The Now):

 

The marble tiles of the hall are cold enough to run a tingle through my feet, and a chill up my spine. Though, I’m too stubborn to actually put socks on. Mom is home, and the best part is: I woke up knowing it.

She’s slumped over the kitchen island with her hand pressed to her eyes. She’s shivering and choking back a gag. I can tell She’s sick. Sick the way I’ve seen Her many times before, sweating and still wrapped up in a blanket. I flinch, wonder if I should take another step closer. I wonder if my presence will bother Her — only for a moment though— and then I’m back on track, barreling straight towards Her. I want, beyond anything else, to wrap my arms around Her and never let go. Even if just for a moment.

She’s been gone for a few months and Her absence has been apparent; I feel it everywhere. It’s always too quiet when She’s away, void of laughter as well as tears. Where She is not, there is death of belonging, as well as self. Without Her, I am left to the mercy of a house which is not really a home. I find myself waiting by doorways, hoping She’ll walk through — jumping with anticipation at the slightest creaks, knocks, and shifting doorknobs.

Today, She finally walked through the door. I had been asleep when She made her way in. Missed the moment. I blinked, and She had slipped past me, elusive as ever.

The instant I wrap my arms around Her, Her body tenses. Though it soon melts into relief. She smiles sheepishly, giving me a look over.

“Look at you,” She says, voice exhausted. Her voice is gentle. She pulls me into view, to get a better look. “Beautiful as always.”

I bite my lip, combing my hair with my fingers in an attempt to make my bed-head more presentable. She stops my hand, Mona Lisa smile etched across her face, as if to ease my discomfort. She rarely cares about things like this when it comes to me, but this realization is soon lost to my crumbling exterior.

“I missed you,” I say quietly.

“I missed you too,” She says.

Her eyes are glassy and Her forehead is beaded with sweat; She’s in more pain than I’m fully able to comprehend.

“You’re sick?” I ask a moment later, perking up. “Can I do anything?”

She can see I’m eager to please.

She gives me a gentle look over before replying with a simple, “Kiss?”.

I agree.

It doesn’t take long for inspiration to hit. I waddle over to the refrigerator, blanket wrapped over my shoulders, as I grab some juice. I have to propel myself up with my tippy-toes to reach it, and as I do, I insist that She stays seated.

The blanket drops to the floor.

“I can do it,” I assure Her, struggling for a grip and kicking the comforter to the side. “You’re sick. You sit.”

When I finally make my way back over to Her, I pour the juice into her cup, lick the brim, and take a big gulp. She looks at me, bemused. I smile, fully aware of the fact that I’m what’s making Her laugh.

I hold the cup out for Her to take.

“Take a sip,” I say, forcing it into Her hands. “It will make you better.”

She raises an eyebrow at me, as if to say: What?

“I’m not sick,” I say, in a logical voice. “Which will make you better, because I took a sip first. You’ll have my good germs, and it’ll heal you. I pinky promise.”

Her smile falters for a moment. I nod my head, egging Her to go on, mistaking Her hesitation for doubt. A moment later, the smile returns. Though, it’s forced. She finally caves, taking a sip. I raise my eyebrows, searching the summer green of Her eyes.

“Well?” I ask, grinning.

“Much better,” She says.

It never once crosses my mind that this sickness is something else entirely; It’s not the flu or a common cold. It’s addiction.

In the years since her death, I have filled countless notebooks with my own thoughts and experiences on the matter. A few years ago, I got three pages into a prompt journal on grief before coming across a question I couldn’t bring myself to answer — stared at the seemingly benign words in outrage— and finally discarded the poor book under my bed, never to be touched again. The offending question had been: if you could tell them one last thing what would it be? I have since formed a semi coherent answer, put into words the thoughts and feelings which have, at times, felt incomprehensible.

Mom, 

Wherever you find yourself in life — The You that you carry around, is not escapable. Whether it’s drugs, alcohol, or anything else — the You that you’re trying to avoid, or quiet down, will still be there. It exists in all your shame, anger, sadness, joy, and the air you breathe into your lungs. You have to choose to love that You. Especially, when you feel the need to hide it away. You have to love yourself enough to reach out for help when you need it, forgive yourself when you mess up, and love yourself despite feeling like you’re beyond happiness or a life worth living. 

This is what I would tell anyone struggling.

It’s also a truth most people like to ignore: We live the entirety of our lives in our heads. Even at the end of our busiest days, this is what we return to — ourselves. The body and mind are neither a temple nor a cage. They are just a place where we come to rest when the day is said and done. Either way, there is no escaping ourselves, despite our best intentions.

 

 

Shayna Cristy-Mendez is a New York native, poet, film lover, and Riot Grrrl enthusiast. Her poetry has been featured in Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Luna Literary Journal, and Tempered Runes Press. Shayna’s work delves into themes of isolation, trauma, and regeneration, often drawing from her own experiences. Never one to shy away from the darker aspects of life, her writing offers readers an unfiltered and unapologetic glimpse into the deeply personal.