I have not written on this blog for almost a month now. Forgive me! Circumstances conspired to prevent my tippy-typing for a number of reasons. Firstly, my computer began acting strange, becoming veeerrryyyy sssslooowwwww and freezing up constantly. After a thorough search by people far cleverer than me, I was told that I had a virus of some sort. It took some time to fix, much to my frustration, but now seems to be working all right. Secondly, I was once again chomped on by a vicious little spider, in almost exactly the same way as was described in my memoir Freak. It crawled across my scalp, leaving a trail of bites or whatever, as I slept. By the time I woke up, feeling it skittering across my forehead, the damage was done and I began to swell. The eye was almost closed by the end of the day and blisters appeared around the same time. I looked at myself in the mirror, peering cleanly with one eye and squinting with the squishy other, then walked into the living room where my roomie was lying on the couch. I threw back my head and yelled, "Adrianne!!!" but since she'd never seen Rocky, the reference was lost. So I was sick and feverish for another week, but am finally on the scabby mend at last. I told people my face looked like a big pink croissant.
Mother's Day is coming up, the one holiday that still messes me up in regards to my son Leland. I'm fine on his birthday, my birthday, all other holidays, but Mother's Day still has the power to turn me into a mess. Last year I went into work and promptly passed out. Literally passed out. This year, I hope for better. I feel stronger than I did so I think maybe it'll be all right. We'll see. One of the strange things about being a passionate nutball of an artist is the fact that I'm a passionate nutball of an artist. I remember a story I read by, I think, Edna Saint Vincent Milay, where she stood on a dock when a ship was just about to leave for a long jaunt at sea. The emotions of everybody there simply overwhelmed her and she passed out cold. I have an affinity for that woman.
I'd be fine with Mother's Day if my son had contact with me, but I haven't even heard his voice for eight years now. Still, like the counselors at his rehab told me, way back when, if his hatred of me is what he needs to stay clean, then let him hate me. And so far, so good. But Mother's Day is still hard. I'm an optimist though. Each year the holidays have had faded pain. It'll be the same for Mom's Day eventually. So let's hope I don't embarrass myself and have worried friends call the paramedics again. That was an amazingly beautiful thing that came out of that emotional day last year: the overwhelming proof of good friends who care about me. So wish me well, my friends. I'm shoring up my courage and fortifying my emotions to face a day that is simply one out of 365, and a sacred day at that. I keep thinking of the line from the movie The Crow: Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children. It's a day to celebrate and cherish, whether your kid loves you or not. My daughter Rhianna loves me and I bask in the glow of that. And even Leland loves me, almost as much as he hates me. I take comfort in that. Most importantly, I take comfort in the fact that I'm very lucky in my friends and loved ones, and my beautiful daughter. So good luck to you, my dear Leland. I wish you well.
I sent him a card a year or so ago that read simply: I still love you. I'll be glad when you pull your head out of your ass.
Maybe that was a bit undiplomatic.