Friday, May 24, 2019

My Andramada





To say the last 9 months have been the worst in my life would be an understatement. August 28, 2018 has changed me. Quite honestly, most times, I don't recognize me anymore.

Yes, I have fantastic children, an amazing Stephen, precious friends who fill in the missing places, a job that I love, and the most Earth shattering grandson that ever existed; but, at the end of every day, I lay down, and my heart literally hurts because my sister isn't here.

I know I should be grateful, and at times I am, but most times I'm just mad. Combined with other losses, it feels most times impossible. I genuinely cannot find enough tears.

It's all made worse because I really do have all those people and things above, and I know that I have hurt all of them in this place. They are trying, they are some really phenomenal people, but they are not my Andreana. Or Andramada, as I called her, well, because.

They are not the baby I spent countless hours wrapping their broken leg in Saran wrap before I bathed her.

They aren't the little red headed baby I grieved heavily over as I bounced through foster care.

They aren't the funny little barefooted girl who hid amongst my pile of stuffed animals for photos.

They aren't the young woman who worked so hard to rise above her circumstances.

They aren't the Mama who chose life for her babies when she knew it might kill her.

They aren't my saving grace when life broke me, who gave me one cheddar round, and a sweet tea, every morning when she drove my babies to school.

They aren't the ones who laughed as I cut all the chocolate off my Snickers bars and ate it because the chocolate ratio was off.

They aren't the one who waxed places we should not have waxed, when we clearly should not have been waxing.

They aren't the ones who did the Cupid shuffle with my parrot with me.

They aren't the one who drove way too fast to Gatlinburg to rescue my babies, and piled way too many people in their little ass car, because they could get there faster than me.

They aren't the ones who grabbed my Mama and drove to Charlotte when they knew I had reached my breaking point.

They aren't the ones who sat up with me all night, for days, when I hurt too much to see morning.

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