Today at breakfast, before work, an old family friend had a sit-down with me and asked me how I was sincerely doing. Automatically I wanted to lie, I had the innate urge to tell her there was nothing I wanted to share… But then she brought up that my late mother’s birthday was this passed Saturday, the 26th.

She asked if I went to the cemetery to see her, to talk to her, and I told her I had. But then she frowns and asked me if I felt any better after or if I was just doing it because that made things seem normal. The more I steeped in the question the more I recognized I never liked going to my mother’s grave and I explained this to her. To which she simply said, “Then forget about going at all.” And I didn’t understand; aren’t you supposed to go see someone’s grave when they die? Aren’t you supposed to mourn them?

“Your mom did a lot of bad things, selfish things. So I want you to be selfish, I want you to take care of yourself and not someone who’s been dead almost eight years.”

Still, I didn’t quite understand… She was my mom. I found it right to go ‘see’ her. But then again… It never did anything to sate my emotions, it wouldn’t make me happier, it wouldn’t help me forgive her any sooner.

“After eight years, Fallyn, maybe it’s time you should live for yourself.”

A bold suggestion, if ever I’d heard one. So as I sipped my coffee and considered this woman I rarely got to chat with, I realized:
I had to let it go. One way or another, in forgiving my mother I would therein forgive myself. Or so I’d heard. And after all this time I’d been clinging to the essence that all of this was MY doing, MY burden… When in reality she’d afflicted more people than I care to admit.

The one thing Paulette made me understand today over breakfast is that I don’t have to support a dead woman anymore, mother or no. I can focus on myself, on those around me. But primarily, I should always be selfish and love who I am becoming.

I feel I am one of those few people who do not fear the concept of death and dying. As it stands, I would not be afraid to leave this lifetime at any given moment. Sometimes, I like to picture myself having a conversation with the spectre of Death, asking “what if..” and “how come…” but these, of course, are questions I will never have answers for.

Unless, well, you know–

I believe that death is not a defeat, and death is not a concept people should be scared of. It’s natural, it’s plain and simple and part of our reality. However. Talking to him as often as I do, making up scenarios and lifetimes I don’t often have the chance to come into contact with, it would seem to others I’m not even living at all; I’m fraternizing too fully with dying.

Someone in therapy once told me, “Don’t flirt with death too much, Fallyn. Or you’ll forget to live.”

For a long time I feel I forgot to live. Or even HOW to do so. But after awhile, Death and I just continue to be good friends. I wish to live and thrive, to be unburdened; I don’t want to die. But I don’t fear it either.

Have you ever had a time in your life when you needed help with something you couldn’t handle alone? Take minute to visit Carl’s story of asking for help. Leave a comment here to tell us about how you ask for help in your life!

I reflect sometimes on how to identify myself. I wish there was one word I could maintain as my title, but truthfully, there are at least 50 words that come to my mind as my identifying features. I am up front about myself upon meeting people. I think the humans of the world are entitled to knowing what they are getting themselves into by letting me into their lives.
I have struggled for a long time with my own self-worth and purpose- most of my 23 years. I am a constant work in progress. I have good days, and then bad days, and then a few more good days, and then a few more bad days. My entirety is made up of many pieces that I am proud to own.
Identify me as a woman. Identify me as a daughter, a sister. Identify me as a warm-hearted spirit. Identify me as a fiery personality (that’s how my mom sees me). Identify me as a dancer. Identify me as a teacher. Identify me as a cat-mom. Identify me as a Hufflepuff. Identify me as a feminist. Identify me as a student. Identify me as a writer. Identify me as the girl dancing in her car as you pass me on the highway. Identify me as a tea-drinker. Identify me as a “follower of cats on Instagram”. Identify me as a hard worker. Identify me as the number-one-grandchild (that’s how I see myself). Identify me as someone who posts way too much information on Twitter. Identify me as someone who owns way too many mugs. Identify me as a crafter. Identify me as a giant hairless cat that can’t fend for herself (that’s how my cat sees me). Identify me as a reader. Identify me as someone you can trust. Identify me as someone who lives with a mental illness.
But don’t just identify me as one thing. I am made up of them all. All of those pieces add to my ever-growing puzzle.

Click on Sunny to read my story!