All the white roses in the world…

Tags

Ambrose Sullivan, bartending, child, David Bowie, David Vega, death of child, death of son, emotional healing, grief, healing, killing, murder, music, pain, parenting, sisters, The Velvet Underground, They Might e Giants, writing

Drawing by Mercy for her deceased brother, Ambrose Sullivan. She thought September was the 10th month

… could never fill this hole inside me.

Today is the six month anniversary of when David Vega killed my son, and left his body in a ditch to rot.

This is six months of screaming in my head that never stops. I am always sobbing, just not always aloud.

For six months; every breath, every lub-dub of my heart, is deliberate and debated.  I have to consciously choose to keep living because I would not dare leave my daughters in this world while they still need me here to raise them. Although, I feel utterly helpless and ineffective.

I have endured six months of questions that have no reasonable answer to them. “Is he still free?” “Why haven’t they arrested him, yet?” “You know he moved the body, right?” “What will the cops charge him with?” “Will you let me know when the trial begins, so that we can be there?” I predict the courtroom will be standing room only.

Each morning, I make my way to his shrine in my living room. I put my hands on either side of the cold, marble urn. I look into my son’s eyes in his photograph. It’s his Senior picture. He was killed just before we could celebrate his graduation. He was killed, and so every celebration we will ever have, or never have, is incomplete. Every day, I lay my trembling hands on his cold urn. I look into his warm, stormy eyes. I talk to him about his cat and his sisters. I talk to him about what is going on in the wake of his killing. I know that my pain is hard for him to watch from the other side without being able to offer me comfort.

“What did you expect, God?!” I wail at the ceiling.

Marley needs her brother more than ever now. She is growing into another version of Ambrose. She is introverted by nature. She is emotionally ambivalent to most things, even though she is also highly sensitive. She is a thinker, not a feeler. She is becoming overwhelmed by being who she is and wondering who she will become. She needs to find an outlet for all the pain and confusion inside her. Her love of anime, music, and books, are all expressions of her brother. So is her insecurity, and her ability to crawl up inside herself and hide there without complaint.

Mercy lets it out in different ways at different times. Sometimes, she’ll draw a picture for him. Most often, she will make playlists of their favorite songs to listen to together. It will always contain, “Heroes” by Bowie, “Particle Man” by They Might Be Giants, and “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground.

Six months now, I have lived in my son’s tomb. For six months, I have started longingly at the basement door, begging for him to walk through it. His arms up stretched over his head, he would walk over to me and give me a big hug and say, “Good morning, mom. I love you” just like he did every day.

As for Ambrose’s friends and family, we are still suffocated by shock. This can’t be processed because a world without Ambrose in it is unacceptable. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how a world without Ambrose can come into play for me. I sure as Hell can’t figure out my way here. I’m a wreck. I’m behind in everything. I am so focused on surviving hour to hour I can hardly remember that another day is going to come at me, and  that I might need to prepare for that. I can’t feel a future in front of me. I only exist in this moment. I hate this moment.

Bartending is my only solace. It’s the only time where I can be distracted from myself, and my grief. When the waves come, I can’t cry there. Not being able to cry at work has made my job a sacred place. What’s even more special, are the friends I have there who are holding my shaking hands as I navigate through this Hellscape. The Vega’s are already banned from where I work for stealing money from the waitresses. Yes, there is a special level of Hell waiting with a Vega Family placecard on the table.

To all the people who have reached out to me; Thank you, thank you, thank you. My heart is shattered, but hundreds of hands have been helping me to put the tiny shards back into a place. I will never be whole again, but perhaps functional. I have survived these past six months. Time hasn’t healed anything. Please, quit spreading that vicious rumor.

Some days I feel like I must be indestructible. If this doesn’t end me, no one can.

Other days, I have the mental fortitude of a dixie cup. If I leave my bedroom I might surely perish.

Ambrose isn’t here to share in the improvements. Money isn’t an issue anymore. I’m not crazy anymore. There are other things, too. He deserves to be here.

So, I live in his honor. I will raise his sisters successfully. I will know what to do with Marley because of my experience raising her brother. I understand why her friends on the computer are so important to her, and that they are very real relationships. She isn’t into appearances, and doesn’t want the company of those who are. Mercy has Ambrose’s brazen nature. She has his disregard for public opinion over self-satisfaction. Her joie de vivre is unmatchable, just like her brother. Mercy and Marley are both proud of inheriting their brother’s apex of portention. It is matched only by their compassion for humankind and the suffering of others. Their altruism is awe inspiring.

Obviously, that means he is still here. I am still raising him, in his sisters. I am still engaging him whenever I play music, or read Ender’s Game to Mercy. Mercy adopted Ambrose’s screen name, Ender 42, online. So, he still exists there as well. Marley is another embodiment of her brother. I see his quiet brilliance in everything she does. We will fight through this adventure together until eventually we all get to the other side; where we will inevitably begin a whole new adventure together again.

My 3 Babies

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Valentine’s Day and the Meaning of Love

Tags

1996, Ambrose Sullivan, baby, best friends, children, love, pregnancy, pregnancy test, single mother, son, True Love, Valentine's Day, writing

Today is the day. The 21st anniversary of the first step on my maternal journey. It began on a grey and dreary Michigan Valentine’s Day of 1996. My best-friend/roommate Tanya and I were arguing again over whether or not I was pregnant. I insisted no. She insisted, equally as stubborn, yes I was. I had already taken a negative pregnancy test over a week ago . She insisted it was wrong. She wouldn’t let it go, so I agreed to come to her first prenatal appointment with her and get tested at her doctor’s office.

While in the waiting room, I chatted with a girl I knew from high school. Tanya went in and I waited for my name to be called. It was. I went through the usual testing process, and then returned to my seat to wait and to see if I passed or failed.

My name was called again. This time, I was led down a pale blue hall with blue-grey carpet. The office had a very warm, mahogany saturated decor. A piece of paper was laid on desk. A nice woman with a bright white coat and a badge walked away and said she would return in two minutes.

I leaned over the desk and saw that the paper was my test results and they were… (da-da-dum) POSITIVE! I was so happy that my entire body elevated and I floated two inches above everything for the rest of the afternoon. Tanya knew as soon as she saw me exactly what the results would be. Heck, she knew before we even got there what the results would be. It was an immeasurable feeling.

The first place I insisted on stopping before we went home was to the library. I checked out every pregnancy and child developmental psychology book I could loan at once. Then I went to my Aunt Bobbie’s house. She was so happy for me. She gave me priceless advice that I’ll never forget receiving and she will never forget sharing.

He was special, I explained to her. I could feel it. I knew that I was going to give birth to this amazing person. I wanted this child. I came back from a coma specifically because I told God that I needed to have this child. Then there was this baby. I was chosen to be this babies Mama. It was the happiest moment in my life.

I couldn’t wait to tell Larry! He had wanted my pregnancy as soon as he met me. I called him up to tell him that I had the best Valentine’s Day gift of all time. We were having a baby together.

“Oh,” he said, in the same way one says, “Oh,” when you tell them their shoe is untied.

“I guess I have to get another job then. I’ll call you back in a couple of days.”

And that was the end of Larry Mims role in our story.

I had an inspired existence with unimaginable potential growing within me. Its very creation was an extension of the best my body had to offer. I was responsible for the heart of this immaculate soul with exponential potential. So, instead of continuing down the self-destructive path that I had so carefully laid out for myself, I was now a vessel for pure innocence. My slate was a mess, but this relationship, this extension of me, was going to come into this world clean. Clean meant free.

That is love. That is purest love. Love that stands for, ‘I will do whatever it takes to keep your best interest a priority’. I knew without hesitation that I was in a relationship that I was willing and ready to invest my entire self into, because I knew without any uncertainty that the rewards would be infinite. My love was righteous because I knew that I was the only one capable of appreciating fully all that was profound about this person. Our bond created a purest level of an amazing love we shared. This human being loved me as its own mother. I was devoted to deserving that love from such an immaculate, and awe-inspiring human. I did not let anyone else define that love or whether or not I deserved it. It was perfect. More than that, though, I truly treasured this love.

“Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of children.”

The day I became a mother, Valentine’s Day of 1996, is when I learned the meaning of true love.

 

My Gatsby Moment

Tags

., dreams, hope, Job, The Great Gatsby, writing

I can still taste my vision as fresh as a dream that I haven’t quite awaken from. I coldly, slowly, awake from these dreams to feel the frustrated release of the details as I float back into the sunlit bedroom. Dreams of me owning my café will drip  through the grinds of my coffee filter while I practice the flight pattern of the day in my mind. Ideals of being a professional writer float off the pages of my shopping list and out into the blurry realm of “things I could have done if only”. I look out of my front room window and expect to see brown stones across the street and skyscrapers on the horizon. Instead, I see duplex and more trees. The flag pole in front of my village’s only grocery store will be waving to remind me that I am still neighbor to nothing of notable importance. I could have been… I might still be… a smell I recognize has long since left the room.

I went for the jobs I trained and worked so hard to earn. Those positions were not meant for me. I wanted to be a proper adult and work wherever I was paid. So, I took a job that I was sure I could keep. I am pretty sure that I won’t blow this gig. I enjoy the art of making machine-made coffee drinks. I am learning to build a variety of ice cream concoctions. I can keep myself from getting fatter from the donuts. I cannot, however, support my family on pittance an hour. I found out that my manager, after five years, is still making significantly less than I was making in training at my last job. The worst part is that I will be permanently placed on second shift. Second shift, to a parent, means that your kids are about to be raised by anyone else but you. Not to mention, it’s embarrassing that I am old enough to parent every other employee I work with. It gives me the image of having obviously failed somewhere along my career path.

It is time to peddle the old resume again. This time I am not as desperate to get paid, as I am to work in a capacity that meets my needs as well as my personal expectations. You can say you knew me when.

I shimmer Gatsby in my heart. I still have hope gnashed between my teeth every night before I fall asleep. I have this vision of being a professional writer carved into my heart. I am madly in love with my affair with words. I am foolishly unable to abandon my belief that all those cliché quotes that my celebrity role models say can come true. Anything is possible if only you wish hard enough. I haven’t failed until I have given up. Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. The rhetoric goes on and on.

I will become a wicked artist, because there ain’t no rest for the wicked. There will be no rest after work. I will use that time to create more writing. Somehow I will have to find time to find a new job in the morning. Submitting resumes, and filling out online applications will take the morning before work. The whole morning, that is, that I’m not working with the kids schoolwork, or taking them to appointments, or going to my own mad appointments, or shopping, or going to the bank, making phone calls, or some other random errand that only the head of household can achieve.

I have to keep living like a real pot of gold is at the end of this eternal rainbow I’ve been tracking. Otherwise, there will be a failure to thrive. I must live. I cannot simply exist on the planet. Like the Earth, I am fire in my core. Like the Earth, I survive off from orbiting a source of energy. It is my inspiration. It gives me life. Like the Earth, without my satellites who orbit me, my oceans of soul will have no tides that ebb and flow and caress my world.

And because you are reading this now; you are also connected to my dreams, my hopes, my goals, my aspirations for existence.