Is this truly my life?

Have you ever heard about Smith Magazine's "Six-Word Memoir" projects? You describe your life in six words. They have published several books from what their readers share.

Traditionally, when one loses one's parents, one is usually in one's fifties or sixties, or older if one is lucky, and the parent(s) in their seventies or eighties or more. It is hard to lose a parent, of course, but there usually exists a spouse and children, probably siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, to comfort one.

To steal someone else's memoir, my life has been "Not quite what I had expected." Or, more accurately: "It's all gone so horribly wrong." 

Because I have none of those people to comfort me. I have this aunt, who has not been a part of my life for 90% of it, as well as her children who I had not seen since the younger ones (now in the thirties) were ten. I have a half-brother who has been even less than 5% of my life and who drops into it now and then when it suits him. He always says he will call in a couple of days, even when I told him about Mom's death. That was more than a week ago. It's okay — I expected that.

Other aunts and uncles let go of me — and I of them — a couple of decades or more ago.

And my younger brother, the treasure of my life, died very young.

This is not how my life should be. Nothing has gone the way it should. Even allowing for my father's dying of a heart attack when I was seventeen, I should have my younger brother as my sibling and friend. I should have married and had children — if anyone was "made" for such things, I was. Family has always meant so much to me, and has been so elusive.

I have step-sisters, technically, because my mother remarried. But we were all grown, they had husbands and children, and we seldom saw each other. My stepfather died several years ago (and he is a story in himself, and not a good one). He brought very little into the marriage; the house and the nice things all came from my mother (and father). But my mom left her estate to be divided into thirds. More than one friend or family member, upon learning that, has commented on the wrongness and unfairness of that.

I know how negative this all sounds, and I should really try to be positive and not let my mind dwell on such things, but that's another way I am made. Perhaps it's the writer in me, always thinking about the many paths a story can take. This happens to be my story. And I have never understood it.

I have some good friends. Two have been particularly supportive during this time: "Lucinda" has provided money for gifts of things and experiences to smooth my way, and "Aristophanes" has provided help and company. Two other friends live nearby and check on me. Today I found out that a dear friend from Seattle is coming to my mom's "memorial party" and bringing her children, whom I consider to be my nephew and niece — I am delighted! And my mother's friends have been constant in their contacts to make sure I am doing well. Many people from a blog I frequent have offered up support and told me I am not alone because they are there. It is all so heartening.

But I still feel this is not my life. I am feeling detached, probably as an emotional defense. I feel rootless and floating. I'll return to Houston when I am finished with my current tasks here, but will I stay there? Will I settle down, or will I drift?

I have to take a pill to get to sleep at night, and I want to sleep all day. I have yet to carry out some of the most basic tasks: posting an obituary in the local paper and informing the necessary entities of Mom's death. My concentration is shot, not unexpectedly, and I distract myself from thinking at all.

I have mostly recovered from the cold I came down with a few days after Mom died, but I still cough, and I have a sore throat that seems unconnected to the cold. You know how sometimes a physical ailment appears connected to an emotional issue? I feel that way about my throat, but I am not sure what exactly it connects to. Most likely it is this: I am very much afraid that if I let go of my detachment and I allow myself to be here completely, that I will completely lose control and drown in my sorrow. In my past losses, there was truly no one to comfort me and support me: I was called on to comfort and support. This pattern I know. Receiving is not what I am accustomed to. But one day soon I will be entirely alone in this house. And then I will be faced with my loss and how my life has changed. There will be no one here to catch me.

And not even the LOLcats will be able to save me.