Two Months, and I’m Still Angry

Two Months, and I’m Still Angry

September 21, 2026

My mom died two months ago yesterday.

I didn’t write about it.

I couldn’t.

It was too painful, so instead I did what I seem to be doing a lot lately when I don’t know what to do with myself.

I worked.

I drowned myself in inventory for the shop.

Photographing.

Sorting.

Pricing.

Listing.

Anything that kept my hands busy enough that maybe my brain wouldn’t have time to think about what the date meant.

It was kind of fitting that it rained basically all damn day.

I had thought about going to the cemetery, but the weather had other plans. And honestly, even if it hadn’t been raining, I don’t know if I would have been able to make myself go.

Two months.

How the fuck has it already been two months?

And at the same time, how has it only been two months?

Today I did pretty much the same thing.

Inventory.

Sorting.

Shop stuff.

I have such a ridiculous backlog from everything being delayed for so long that I could probably work on inventory every day for the next month and still find something else hiding in a box somewhere.

So for now, FRDCreations is going to have weekly Friday updates until I finally catch up.

Apparently drowning myself in work is currently one of my coping mechanisms.

Healthy?

Debatable.

Effective?

Sometimes.

I’m Still So Fucking Angry

Underneath all the crystal posts, jewelry photos and shop updates, there is something I don’t show very often.

I am angry.

Really fucking angry.

There is still so much about my mom’s hospitalization that I don’t understand.

There are things I witnessed that I replay constantly. Conversations I still think about. Decisions I still question. Moments where I wish I understood why things happened the way they did.

And because there are still questions I may need to deal with privately and possibly legally, I’m not going to sit here and make definitive claims about what should or shouldn’t have happened.

I know I cannot predict an alternate future.

I know I cannot say with certainty what would have happened if different decisions had been made.

I know that.

But emotionally?

I cannot shake the belief that things could have been different.

I believe that with my whole chest.

One week before my mom died, she was standing.

She was doing exercises.

She was still fighting.

And I knew my mother.

I knew her better than almost anyone.

I was the person caring for her for nearly three years while Alzheimer’s slowly took pieces of her away.

I knew what she could do.

I knew what was normal for her.

I knew when something was wrong.

Her caregivers knew her too.

We were there.

And I think that’s why it makes me so angry when people say things like, “Sometimes these things just happen.”

No.

I can’t hear that right now.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to.

But right now all I hear is someone trying to put a neat little bow around something that does not feel neat.

I spent years fighting to keep my mom as independent as humanly possible despite advanced Alzheimer’s.

I wanted her walking.

Moving.

Eating.

Making choices when she could.

Doing things for herself when she was able.

I watched that stupid fucking disease take so much from her, and I fought like hell to make sure it didn’t take everything.

Then she got sick.

Then everything changed.

And then she died.

I am still trying to understand how we got from one place to the other so quickly.

I Don’t Know How to Let It Go

I want to let go of the anger.

God, I want to.

I don’t want to carry this around forever.

I don’t want every memory of my mom’s last weeks to be tangled up with resentment and questions and me replaying everything over and over again.

But I don’t know how to let it go.

I don’t know how.

Maybe answers will help.

Maybe time will help.

Maybe therapy will help.

Maybe nothing completely makes it disappear and I just learn how to carry it without letting it eat me alive.

I don’t know.

Right now, I’m angry because I loved my mom.

I’m angry because I spent years protecting her.

I’m angry because I was there.

I’m angry because I still have questions.

And I’m angry because she is gone and I cannot do a damn thing to change that.

That doesn’t mean I know exactly what happened medically.

It doesn’t mean I can prove what another course of care would have changed.

It means I’m her daughter, and I’m grieving, and there are parts of what happened that I am nowhere near ready to make peace with.

The Pretty Box

So if you’ve been watching my social media lately, you probably wouldn’t know any of this.

You’d see crystals.

Lots and lots of fucking crystals.

You’d see new products and photos and listings and me talking about pretty rocks like everything is normal.

It isn’t.

Sometimes I’m sitting there sorting a box of crystals while absolutely furious at the world.

Sometimes I’m photographing something while trying not to cry.

Sometimes work is the only thing keeping me from crawling back into bed.

And today, all I really want is my mom.

I want to show her this pretty box of crystals.

I want her to look through them even though she wasn’t really a crystal person.

I want her to pick up the prettiest one and decide it belongs to her.

Or two.

Probably three.

She would have absolutely stolen the good ones.

And I would have complained.

And then I would have let her keep them.

That’s what I want today.

Not answers.

Not paperwork.

Not another listing.

Not another fucking discussion about estates or hospitals or grief.

I just want to show my mom my pretty box.

And I can’t.

So today I’m angry.

Today I miss her.

And today I’m going to keep sorting rocks because apparently that’s how I’m surviving this part.

Two months.

I still can’t believe it.

I miss you, Mom.