counterfeit celebrity

You Don’t Just Lose Someone Once —

You lose them over and over,

sometimes many times a day.

When the loss, momentarily forgotten,

creeps up,

and attacks you from behind.

Fresh waves of grief as the realisation hits home,

they are gone.

Again.

You don’t just lose someone once,

you lose them every time you open your eyes to a new dawn,

and as you awaken,

so does your memory,

so does the jolting bolt of lightning that rips into your heart,

they are gone.

Again.

Losing someone is a journey,

not a one-off.

There is no end to the loss,

there is only a learned skill on how to stay afloat,

when it washes over.

Be kind to those who are sailing this stormy sea,

they have a journey ahead of them,

and a daily shock to the system each time they realise,

they are gone,

Again.

You don’t just lose someone once,

you lose them every day,

for a lifetime.

—

It takes a village.

I’m turning 48 this year and since I live in a world of perpetual self-criticism, I thought I’d do something different this year. While my actual birthday isn’t until October, I’m starting early with the celebrations, or rather with acknowledgements. Starting today, I’m going to practice being kind to myself. People are drawn to my confidence but what they don’t know is the fear I lack for man, is a byproduct of living with the biggest scariest monster I know: me. It’s become harder to allow hours, days in which I torment myself, ever since losing my mom. I feel that she would want me to be happy, healthy & prosperous. I cannot continue to treat myself the way I have & honor my mother at the same time. She not only loved being my mom, she celebrated it. During my time with her, the entirety of it she spent teaching me the ‘whys’ to loving myself. I think she thought I would be smart enough to figure out the ‘hows’, but “i traded fame for love”. So here we are. Faced with a not-so-new project, a practice of self-love to combat the familiar self-loathing. It’s scary. My hate, spawn from the lack of representation in the media during my formidable years, had dressed itself in anger. Anger, was pliable, I could manipulate it and use it as motivation or against someone. I made armor out of anger but the suit no longer suits me. The point is, I’ve been afraid to let go of that facet of my identity for too long now. It’s come at a great cost. It’s time I humble myself and let go of the false sense of control I thought I had. No one’s in control: the hearts that break will be broken, the lies will flow right out of heroes’ lips, those who once held you will dare to be human and you’ll be faced with choice. Today, I choose to practice self-love by not picking up, by applying for work, by talking to my therapist, by reaching out to loved ones, by telling them my truths, by asking for help, by accepting help & by acknowledging that he who I once was is still in there & it’s time for him to come back out.

Too well.

There’s a line of distinction that separates healthy love from unhealthy. My parents, immigrants from another country, did the best they could to raise a healthy (on all fronts) boy. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to make it happen. How could she not; she helped her parents raise her siblings and contributed to the financial supporting of them. She’d been a mom 1000 times before I was assigned to her. He: raised on a farm, was very much a cowboy (speak when spoke to and use only the words to convey truth). NEITHER of them knew anything about mental healthcare nor did they address patterns in behavior that they couldn’t identify. They were not taught to look out for societal changes that would dramatically effect how their offsprings would react to this world. They just loved me.

Mexican love is different than other ethnicities. We have developed a miracle cure for everything be it a broken bone, a bee sting, or a broken heart. We call this amazing cure: food. When a mexican loves you, they will identify your biggest insecurity and call you by a nickname derived from that insecurity to help you cope with it. When you lose the love of a mexican, it’s not just a love gone, it’s a whole era gone because through love, we envelop you into our culture, our family, into our history.

My parents did the best they could but the love they shown me cannot be measured because it was off the charts. “No healthy. Too mush. Throw up!” Everything has always been taken care of for me by the small army I call my nuclear family. I don’t know how to adult, still at 47. I don’t know how to do a lot of things. I knew it when my mom was alive & I know it now. And so I feared with great anxiety the day I would be expected to walk on my own, without the presence of my savior. I don’t know how to be “Eric who’s lost his mom” or “Eric without safeguard” I hid from the reality that I am my one person and no one is responsible for my happiness except me. Well….. I walk on this earth known as “Eric, no mom”. But it is only one title. The one I choose to focus on today is “Eric motivated by his mother”. So I’ll use her example and her strength to pull her son out from his dark abyss and I’ll borrow from her accomplishments the confidence it takes to improve the quality of my life. Later, once I’ve reached at least the first plateau, I hope to use her joy, to dance again, her creativity to laugh again, and her foresight to lay down the appropriate foundation for her son to grow old, securely.

Each morning as a child, after brushing my teeth and combing my hair, I would be received at our kitchen table by a plate of beautifully arranged fruit: cantaloupe, honeydew, plums, nectarines, bananas, apples, oranges & sometimes grapefruit. On a side plate rested a bed of cottage cheese which topped two slices of tomato, perfectly seasoned with salt & pepper. To drink, a cup of OJ next to a cup of oatmeal, next to a cup of buttermilk. Never forgotten was the side dish of buttered wheat toast. Not white toast. Wheat. While I ate this, always starting with the toast, my mom leaned against the oven and asked what I wanted for breakfast.

That would be story enough but then you’d miss out on the daily menu: cream of wheat without the clumps, mexican pizza (which was fried tortilla bits mixed in scrambled egg), scrambled eggs with golden potatoes medallions, breakfast burritos with fresh salsa, toasted PB&J (if you’ve never had a PBJ toasted, you’re missing out).

My mom didn’t just loved being my mom, she relished in it. And she taught all those around her how to be with me. She convinced my father to join her in a year long cleansing, a break from their party lifestyle, in order to purify her body, to be a vessel worthy of carrying life. My life. I’m in great pain right now. This grief is real. I have to ask myself how much of this is self-pity and how much is actual grief and it gets so convoluted. I want the world to stop. I want the world to ache as I do. I want the world to stop and recognize what sacrifices my mother made for me. How above and beyond she went and did so happily. With broken English, through racists policies, in a country different than where she started, away from her own parents to mother a gay boy & become his best friend.

I don’t know how else to do this y‘all. In my heart, you’ll never understand, but my mind is telling me to have faith in you and your ability to understand through these memories that I share with you. So I do, and I will. What else have I got?

At just 13, she convinced her parents, to move their family, made up then by 4 sibling & herself, from Torreón Coahuila to the biggest & most dangerous border town on the Mexican/American border Ciudad Juarez. Socorro’s love of adventure played a part in her decision making but ultimately it was the love of her family and the potential for it to not only survive, but to thrive that commandeered this ship. My mom was a progressive leader; by moving closer to the border, she’d only have one obstacle left to overcome in her own track of life: to become an American citizen. Up until that point she and her family would endure hunger, sickness and arrested development due to a corrupt government, substandard healthcare - along with medical scarcity, and a shortage of labor. To be American was to be free, and my mom‘s spirit is one that can’t be contained by anyone or anything other than the limitations placed upon her female form. One of my moms greatest loves was all things Americana, which was influenced by her love of adventure, Patsy Cline & that which was en trend after the 2nd World War: American patriotism. Can you imagine being that age and already making strategic family decisions that would aid in the betterment of your family’s well-being. Well, young Socorro Sarmiento had a sixth sense about her and with it, she saw the future. Like ‘Belle’ from “Beauty & The Beast”, Socorro did not do well with provincial living, she thought too hugely to be governed by a village mentality. It was stay and get by with whatever scraps she and her father could earn, while watching her siblings die from a lack of proper nourishment, or she and they could set off on a new a journey towards hope. With faith as her North Star, Socorro made a decision. A decision which would influence every member of family: her parents, and 4 of her surviving siblings, and the many who came later in future generations. It was my mom who made that decision, helped finance that endeavor and made the leap from one country to another. At just 13.

Thank you for providing example to so many, how to get the job done.

To me you gave me the gift of life. I see you in so many things I do. Now, your example will trickle down to people you’ve never even met. You will live forever.

Socorro Sarmiento Fuentes 05/13/1939-06/07/2023