#1 Dear Granny Vansean...

Dear Granny Vansean,

You’ve been gone since I was 6-years-old, so I’ve been having some sort of conversation with you in my own head for almost 37 years. The conversation has changed a lot over the years, of course. At first, it was a very confused conversation. I tried to reconcile the stories I was told about what happened to you with the woman I knew. Nothing fit. I watched the memories of you in my head with the same adoration I had when I looked at you. To me, you were wise and witty. You were glamorous and beautiful with your fancy makeup and collection of turbans. You knew secrets and had answers. You were only 46 when you left us, but you had reached the top of my little world.

More than anything... I missed you.

When I was a teenager, I was angry at you. I blamed you for leaving. I told people that suicide was the most selfish thing a person could ever do and that it was the easy way out. It didn’t matter to me why you did it—it only mattered that you were gone and you had made the choice to give up. You left us. You left me. I hated my name… your name. I was embarrassed about how you left us. I wondered why my innocent, adoring, baby self wasn't enough to make you hold on or ask for help.

Still, I missed you.

When I reached early adulthood, I was still angry at you, but for different reasons. I began to have children and learned the secret of a mother's love. How could you abandon your children? I was angry at you for leaving my Mom and her brothers. My relationship with my Mom was broken and at times, I blamed you for that. I thought that you messed her up… you messed us up. I saw how much pain my Mom lived in, and I knew your absence was all over that pain. I didn’t give my daughter our name.

Even still, I missed you.

In my early 30’s, I got a job as an addictions counselor and everything fell into place. Understanding addiction and loving addicts was like putting that last piece into a puzzle that made the whole picture clear. The whiskey and pills. The highs and lows. The gun. The guilt. You hated yourself for things that no one else would ever hate you for. My anger was replaced with understanding. I wished that someone in your life had known how to help you. I wished I could have helped you. I reconciled that you had been both the glamorous top of my 5-year-old world—sharp and funny and wise, and at the same time— in the depths of despair— broken and depressed and hopeless.

And I missed you more.

Now I know the pains of motherhood and how complicated life can be. I know that I have no idea what you might have been going through, and I don’t even try to put myself in that space. I barely know the physical expression of who you were, except for my limited experience and second-hand stories, but now your spirit is at my center. You are where I access joy and love- especially self-love.

I wore your beloved smoky topaz ring to see Tom Jones at the Jazz Fest because I knew you’d be there with me. I think of you when I’m having a girls’ night out and when I throw caution to the wind. I think of you when I’m loving on my kiddos— and especially when I’m laughing at them. I think of how much you must adore my daughter. She’s sassy like you. I’ve raised her to think of you with love and compassion. She wishes I had given her our name... Vansean.

I wore your ring to the Women’s March in Washington DC. I’m pretty sure the physical incarnation of you would have been on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me, but I know you are proud of my inner bad-ass, and maybe it’s okay to disagree wherever you are now. When I am beating myself up, I try to see myself through your adoring eyes. When I think about things that I love about my Mom, I see you. When I do something surprising and courageous, I know you are there, and I thank you. When I need help, I ask you.

I have you with me all of the time, but more than ever, I miss you.

All My Love,

Joyce Vansean