Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

I thought about him sometimes on the mountain, even wondered if he was watching over me. Then I’d get pissed off. If he was my guardian angel, like I told myself growing up, why the hell didn’t he make it stop?

Like you told me, I need to allow for the possibility I won’t always feel the way I do now, and it’s important to take note of small signs of progress, no matter how insignificant they may seem.

I hate them for not being in pain like me, hate them for being able to enjoy themselves. Hate myself for feeling that way.

But if somebody is telling you the sky is green, even though you know it’s blue, and they act like the sky is green and they keep saying it’s green day in, day out, like they really believe it, eventually you could start wondering if maybe you’re nuts for thinking it’s blue.

“Maybe I was more fun for her when I was little, or maybe it’s because I started getting my own opinions and actually challenged her. Whatever the reason, I’m pretty sure she’s disappointed I grew up.”

“I keep telling myself it’s okay to talk about these things, I can still love my mom and not always like everything she does.”

You can be as happy as you’ve ever been in your life, and shit is still going to happen. But it doesn’t just happen. It knocks you sideways and crushes you into the ground, because you were stupid enough to believe in sunshine and roses.

I wondered why his skin didn’t reek of the rot in his soul.

But sometimes when he was thoughtful or happy or excited, when his face lit up, I saw the guy he could have been.

You do a good job of hiding it, but I know this stuff gets to you.

You told me the women you knew before always made bad decisions over men and their careers, but maybe they were just rebelling because they weren’t allowed to think for themselves when they were younger.”

I want to hate him. I’m like a wound barely sewn shut, and every time we talk the stitches break, the wound reopens, and I have to sew it back together.

When I leave here, I feel bad that you had to listen to all my crap—it makes me feel selfish. But not enough that I want to change. This shit made me selfish. I have a righteous sadness.

Honestly, sometimes I think you just look for ways to make yourself miserable.” “If that was the case, I’d spend more time with you, Mom.”

she’s the only mother I’m going to have in this life and the poor woman’s already been through so much. Meanwhile, I sit there thinking, Why the hell doesn’t she try to understand me? What about what I’ve been through?

Like I said, I should feel proud of my progress, and I am, but that just adds another layer of guilt.

Just thinking, Doc, every time I say something bad about Mom, I have this urge to list all her good qualities right after—my version of knocking on wood. And the thing is, Mom isn’t all bad, but that’s the problem. It would be easier if I could just hate her, because it’s the rare times when she’s loving that make the other times so much harder.

“Have you ever heard of a mother doing something like this?” “People do terrible things to people they love all the time.