I'm angry at my mother. I'm angry that she didn't take the help that was given to her time and time again. I'm angry that my children are sad and have (basically) no grandparents. I'm angry that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to her - or give her a kiss or a hug. I'm angry that the last time I spoke to her was for a brief second days before she died, and she said she would call me back and never did. I'm angry that doctors shoveled pain pills in her direction in copious supply. I'm angry that she didn't call me the night she was sick - most likely because she knew I would give her no sympathy...as years and years of constant battles over real vs. imaginary illness drove me empty inside. I'm angry that I'm 34 and have no parents. I'm angry that she left so sudden, but in such a preventable way, I way I had already convinced myself would certainly be her demise. Mostly, I'm angry at myself for feeling so sad that she's gone. That's who I'm really angry at.

But you know, I don't think the pain of losing someone comes from the memories. Or the anger. I think it comes from the knowledge of what can never be. The potential. It's all wasted away.

Yeah, so I'm angry. But I'm certainly not going to let it control who I am or the values I have as a person, or the things that are important to me. Anger is such an ugly emotion really. It's got no real value, except to cause destruction within yourself. I used to have terrible road rage problems - seriously. When I had a long commute to Towson, I would listen to classical music in the car so I wouldn't feel the urge to run someone off the road. People who drive too slow. People who tailgate. People in BMWs. But I realized that the only person being affected by my road rage was myself... it's not like I was channeling that anger into starting some sort of shitty-driver prevention program. It's not like the crappy drivers in Baltimore could sense my intense reaction and would respond by suddenly using turn signals or yielding the proper right away. It doesn't work that way. Anger only affects me. It festers. Like a boil. One of those puss-filled ones that you have to get drained by a doctor.

Anyway, you get what I'm saying.

Here's where I could spit out all the stupid metaphors. Everything happens for a reason. God won't give you more than you can handle. Look at the positives. Blah blah blah blah. I know them all. I get it. I do. I'm not so ignorant that I can't see how from one shitty thing comes something great. I just wish I could fast forward my life sometimes, ya know?

There are so many valuable people in my life. You discover this when something tragic happens - because the people who really mean something, who really truly care about you - they surface in the most random of places. I'm so incredibly grateful for everything I have and everyone that has been so supportive of me in the last few weeks. Even if it was just a random email or a hug or whatever - it sometimes takes the worst case scenario to be reminded that people (some of them anyway) are just good. Ya know? Like in their core good.

One last metaphor and then I'm out of here: You can surround yourself with all these beautiful pieces of furniture, painted up to look really fancy and ornate, with gold trim and silver decals... but when you take off all that stuff on the outside,... when it's stripped and scraped down to the bare wood, vulnerable and naked - it's what it's made of that truly counts.

I can't end on a sad note, so I will tell you give you a historical Jess/Mom story - to ponder on whilst you wipe away your tears and sniffle at that box of kleenex. Once, when I was about 2 or 3 maybe, I took all the maxi-pad kotex out of my mom's cabinet in the bathroom and lined them all up on the front porch with my barbie dolls. Barbie to sticky side. As beds. My mom loved to tell this story - as it always induced laughter and embarrassment from me and my sister (she was in on the feminine hygiene mattress playdate as well I'm afraid) but as an adult I thought of two things. One - if your pads were so big a circa-1980's Barbie fit full length on it like a mattress, you probably should have your vagina checked out (plus, who wants to admit to a owning a futon-sized pad? I have enough problems fessing up to using super plus tampons). And two - who the hell was watching us?

OK. Well I'm gonna go get some sleep now. Thanks for being here with me. :)