It’s Just Me

Aaaaaah, my blog. My little home space. My big white box that connects me to about three dozen people who know me so well. The intimate audience of people whose questions about life are similar to mine.

Hello.

I am back. Back at home. Back at my blog. Back at writing. Suffice to say I didn’t expect to be here again so soon, but all is well. There is no story to tell.

And so I am edging out on the tightrope I have been avoiding.

Many of my friends are confident — in a way I simply cannot be, me who is made of primarily confidence, especially in the face of uncertainty (see also, every post on this blog, my book, my everything) — that life is certain I should be writing.

Be a writer.

Be the light.

Be the questions.

I will try, my dear friends who honor me with your confidence and love. I will try. It begins today.

I always knew I would write about her. That much is clear. Now, whether that idea was my mother’s or mine, I still can’t say. Like many things between us, the boundaries of what was hers and mine—memories, personality traits, burdens—are hopelessly confused. Even now, after she’s long gone and a few of the facts about our fiction have risen to the surface.

She called me her “one and only,” and by that she meant daughter, mostly. Those words were both benediction and warning. That she had two sons mattered, too, and a husband as well—but not when she and I were in our fantasy world together, which was most of the time.

By most people’s account, my mother and I had the ideal mother-daughter relationship: close, confiding, we looked alike and we acted alike, creating commanding interactions wherever we went, gathering up people’s attentions like flowers tossed on the stage.

It was a romance we shared, my mother and me. Hopelessly in love with one another, freakishly intertwined. She was my best friend and her own worst enemy, and I spent my childhood trying to convince her she was worthy, to keep her alive, to make her see that she mattered so much, and not just to me.

Because I was never going to be enough to save her. But I tried. Oh, how I tried.

I took on the role of being her greatest fan, which only meant that later I would become her biggest disappointment. Truth is, I didn’t travel too far, moving from one pole to the other. She did instead, moving ever imperceptibly backward, until none of us in this world could reach her at all.

Not even me. Her precious, beloved daughter, her second chance, her everything….

About stacy

I am a writer, author, mother, former magazine editor (last at Redbook), optimist, and, above all, a searcher. I'm still searching for whom I'm really meant to be, after a series of very jarring losses: a divorce and house disaster that led to a book (Falling Apart In One Piece); a week after the book came out, my parents suddenly fell gravely ill, I resigned from my job (and, apparently, my career), my son went into crisis, my parents then rapidly died four weeks apart, and my boyfriend (who had moved in with me and my son just weeks before the book came out) began the painful journey of realizing we couldn't make our relationship work (that story unfolded on this blog). Since then I've been trying to figure out what's next. Or, in other words, how to fill in the blanks.
This entry was posted in living, starting over, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to It’s Just Me

  1. Rita says:

    Keep edging, Stacy. You’ll know soon enough if you’re moving toward the light, right? It is nice to see you in my inbox again. 🙂

  2. alexandra says:

    I love to see you in my inbox. I always smile and feel grateful to have found you. Keep writing, because it reminds how wonderful the internet has been for me. It led me to you.

  3. Rita Arens says:

    Great start. Even if I didn’t know your story, I’d want to keep reading. – your friend the writer

    HUG HUG HUG – just me

  4. Trish Sammer says:

    Oh, the complicated relationships between mothers and daughters. So very hard to sort out. Definitely a worthy topic.

    I wonder if fathers and sons get intertwined in each other’s existences like this?

  5. Em Gee says:

    Stacy, I just want you to know I wish you all good things. My mom gave me your book a few years ago when my life seemed to fall apart, and there were so many parallels with what you went through. I truly believe you did as well as save my life with what you wrote, as you saved my perspective. My journey could have taken me anywhere dark had I not been open to signs and caught the right words at the right time. It’s just a new path and a second chance I’m graced with, and things are finally bright again, more daunting but brighter than before. You’re a light. Keep shining. Blessings.

    • stacy says:

      Em Gee — how can I possibly thank you for leaving me such a beautiful note? Perspective is — it turns out — the only tool we need to survive pain we are sure will erase us. I am so glad you are in a place of bright and light that you built for yourself. Remember that! You did it. YOU DID. For you. And now your light will shine for others as well. This is the best we can do as feeble, fallible human beings. Love as hard as we can despite all the reasons not to. Sending you love. xo SLM

  6. Lena says:

    Write, Stacy. I miss you! 🙁

    • stacy says:

      Oh my gosh, thank you. That’s such a lovely thing to see when I popped in here today to look at my empty space. Thank you thank you. I’ll try to be here more.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *