It takes a great deal of heat to melt rocks into magma. I wonder… is there a similar technique that allows a cold heart to soften with warmth? To light a match under the ribcage and hope the ice melts before spring? I think about what it must be like to turn stone cold earth into flaming hot lava when my mother steps into a room. Lately my sister and I have noted her frosty attitude towards my grandmother and it has been spreading. An elderly woman slowly losing her mind, she is not as fragile as one might expect. No, we suspect a more sophisticated hidden agenda behind her “dementia” as she has been diagnosed.
Day after day, for years now, the igneous rock that is my mother’s heart has cooled with tension, anger, and frustration. Of course my sister and I reap the bad fortune which follows this cycle. Her anger is projected on us and I have been trying to warm her spirits ever since, for my own sake. My grandmother can not live at home anymore by herself, and every solution has been shot down by her twisted games. She has refused nursing homes, beating the care givers with her cane. She has refused personal care givers in her apartment, clogging the toilet and blaming it on them.
My mother is almost positive she is faking dementia all together to make her life miserable. My sister and I do what we can to help, but we have our own lives as well. It takes a bulk of patients and positivity for me to stay warm and loving as the horrible energy running through my family attacks our spirits, and during the holidays nonetheless. I try to pretend there are no problems, that like my friends and their families, my family is in good cheer.
Slowly but surly I feel my own soul cooling, my own spirit hardening like my mothers. I do not have the same twinkle of holiday joy I’ve spread in previous years. This afternoon I noticed a shift in my step, a literal change in the way I walk. I was angry.
After being scolding four times in twenty-four hours for reasons unclear, the level of patients I keep under my belt snapped. I slammed our front door without a goodbye and drove off to Starbucks where I sit typing this post at full speed. Since the outburst my nerves have simmered down, but I’d just like to know, would a little joyous heat melt that rock my mother calls a heart? Or would it add flames to her horns as she sits with her pitch fork in hand?
Journal Entry #28