Mother smother

Lately, when I look in the mirror I see my mother’s face.  I see her mouth, her eyes, the pores of her skin.

I don’t hate my mother, nor do I resent her.  But I see my relationship with her more clearly now.

As a child I felt flawed, like a mistake inside me made me unlovable.  She was distant and cold.

As an adult (and I’ve been one for a while now) I realise that my relationship with her is the same.
And I’m still taking the blame for it.  I’m older now, I have the life skills to really create a proper close relationship with her.  And it’s just not happening.  I’m waiting for her approval, her interest.
She’s a new age hippy type.  She loves crystals and talking to angels.  But her heart is closed.  And I am confused.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been waiting for her to save me from drowning, but her back is always turned.  She’s looking the other way.

And so, I’m letting her go.  Which is strange, as I see her everyday as I put on my makeup, as I do my hair.
I don’t feel bad, or sad.   I feel free.  And maybe she does too.  Maybe the burden of my expectation has been weighing her down.  Maybe she just wants to fly away.

Fly away mumma.  It’s ok.

 

 

 

 

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