dear mom,
In my most recent performance review, they put "asking for help" under Weaknesses. I debated breaking down in tears and unloading the content of my last several therapy sessions. Instead, I laughed and said, "I know."
I don't know how to ask for help in some cases. It's not a unique feeling. I know plenty of people who will relate when I say "I don't want to be a burden." "I'm afraid of inconveniencing them." "I wouldn't want to put them in a position of doing something they don't want to do just because I asked." In some other cases, it's because I feel like it'd just be easier to do it myself. Which is all fine and well until the resentment builds. It shouldn't be surprising that it carries over into my job. But also, mom, you probably knew yourself that some people are categorically useless. Trust isn't given; it's earned.
After you died, I know I closed myself off. It's worthless the theorize if I would've learned healthier coping skills if you were around. Or if dad knew how to offer the right kind of support. He sat me down once to tell me I could talk to him about anything, but I was a shy-anxious nine year old child without a particularly close relationship with her dad, and he never tried again. I don't remember uttering a single word to the therapist he sent me to for a few sessions. I bet the therapist found me frustrating as hell. As an adult, who is actively talking about this fatal flaw of mine, I can logically understand it takes more patience and effort to help a child understand her grief, but since I am an adult who is still informed by insufficient emotional support as a child, I don't know how to ask for help.
After you died, I feel like I managed my own life. I studied, I did my homework, I forged my own permission slips. I carried the school supply lists and found everything myself so dad could check out. I threw my own birthday parties. I microwaved my own food. I asked dad to sign me up for piano and art class and Chinese class, all the things you shuttled me to without a thought. I apparently did all of this rather unnoticed even to myself, and I know this because I made my way to college without any real aspirations or goals. Like a zombie following the only academic path she thought was available to her. And then nine years after me, it was Alfred's turn. He graduated this year, and you'd be very proud of him, by the way. But I recall dad telling someone how much he had to learn about the college application process with Alfred. "Amelia managed it herself, I didn't even pay attention." Just cutting checks and offering unsolicited opinions about what I should do with my life. I didn't know what was happening as I finished out each school year. All I knew was that I felt sad when dad was the only parent not watching me during my volleyball games or when he didn't even try to sit with me when I needed help with my homework or when I wanted to play a new board game and he didn't want to learn the rules.
I have somehow created my own loneliness, and I don't know what to do about it.
I enjoy burying myself in projects. I think I need something to count down to, and sharing food and feeding people are always big things for me to look forward to. I've never viewed this as born of psychoses instead of compassion, but could it be?
If you could drop by my apartment for dinner tonight, we'd share this cobbled together meal that is made of remnants of my latest dinner party event. I started hosting themed dinner parties this year. I bet you would like them. I bet you'd also think it's an amusing thing to do. Anyways, I had a couple tea eggs left and carrot tops that I turned into a thick creamy sauce with cashews. There were a few sticks of slightly over fermented shio carrots left, and I found some canned white beans, so I'd make you this... cassoulet of sorts. It's topped with parsley from the giant bunch I just picked up at the farmer's market and some crispy shallots that's hanging out in my pantry.
Mom, do you even like beans? I wish I knew. We'd eat together surrounded by the current disaster that is my kitchen. A sous vide I borrowed from work on the bench next to you because I want to confit duck. A Costco bag of flour that's too big to go in any of the cupboards. A stack of containers of various leftover pastries that I've been snacking on, and bottles and jars of things lined up on the ground. You would be so offended, and I'd have to reassure you I'll clean it all up after my event.
I miss you in my solitude.
Amelia
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