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.

 

 

 

 

Am I not pretty enough?

Every parent is doing the best they can with the skills they have at the time.

At least that’s what they say.

But what if that just isn’t enough?

What if, you (me really) deserved better?

What if you deserved to know you were loved?
What if you deserved to feel accepted, unconditionally.
What if a hug, or a kiss good night as you were being tucked into bed, what if that was the thing that would have made all the difference?

What if, instead of being made to feel like an outsider, or being told to go away, you were made to feel safe and wanted and important?
What if you deserved all of that, and your parents just fucked it up?

What then?

 

Home Sweet Home.

Things I remember as a kid.

We lived in an old house, and from a very early age my parents would leave me alone, unsupervised.

I snooped through drawers and cupboards.  I knew every nook and cranny.  I found and ate food my mother had hidden.  I knew where my dad hid his porno mags, and where mum hid the Christmas presents.
One day as they were going out my parents said to me “See that power outlet?”

I saw it.  It was the old fashioned kind, black bakerlite – real old school dangerous.
I nodded “Yep”
“Well, don’t stick a fork or anything in it, because you’ll get electrocuted,” my dad said.

The instant I saw the car reverse out of the driveway, I was straight into the kitchen to find a fork.  I climbed up onto a chair and I poked that fork into the socket.

I can’t remember what happened next exactly, but my parents came home many hours later, and my arm still hurt from the electric current that had shot through it.

Another time we went to family barbecue.  There was very little for the kids to do – you know because it was the 1980s and kids were still expected to be seen and not heard- so me and some other kids were just wandering around this person’s garden.

Then my dad pipes up “See that bush over there?” And he’s pointing at the biggest chilli plant I’ve ever seen.
All the kids nod.
“Well whatever you do, don’t pick one of the chillies then touch your eyes or mouth or nose….”

Well, I think you can guess what happened next.

My little faced burned and tingled for hours after.

You might think the common factor here was me doing stupid shit repeatedly.  But I think, that’s a thing all kids do.

No, in fact the commonality here for me is that even at that very young age, I knew that if I made a mistake, even one that put me in harms way – there was no one to tell.

I never said a word, and no one ever asked.

I’d learnt how to keep secrets.

 

Fly fly little wing.

How do you balance being the person you are, right now – with the person you were raised to be?

You see, I am who I am.  A grown woman with three kids on her second marriage.  The choices I’ve made have lead me here.  Every choice I make counts.

I get that.  I get it right down to my bones.

I hold myself responsible for everything.

And yet in kindness, I can see a small lonely frightened child hidden away inside.

And that child has also directed who I am and where my life has gone.

Can I escape being the kind of wanker who blames everything on their unhappy childhood?

Can I continue with this introspection and still retain a shred of dignity?

When will enough be enough?  When will I know when I’m done?

Right now I trying to hold myself in this place of no judgement.

Right now grown up me (the mother) holds the scared child close and tight.

I love her unconditionally.

But one day, I hope to be able to let her go so she can journey on her own.

A difficult child

My parents considered me a difficult child.

Sometimes I stole stuff.  Sometimes I lied and made up stories.

Sometimes I wouldn’t talk to them.

Sometimes I was defiant.

Sometimes I wouldn’t help out.

Sometimes I was angry and resentful.

Sometimes I pushed their boundaries.

Sometimes I was lonely.

Sometimes I felt invisible and irrelevant.

Sometimes I felt like the little I asked for was deemed too much.

Sometimes I just wanted to be seen.

Sometimes the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

And sometimes it’s cast aside, not worth the trouble.

Existential bullshit.

My life has always been fraught, stretched thin – me holding on for dear life.  Often I sense I am squeezing all the joy out of every tiny moment, so fixated on being one with myself and the Universe.  Sometimes I can’t get out of my own way.  I want so desperately to live a full and content life.

I beg the Universe for guidance.  I follow the phases of the moon, read my horoscope, diagnose my own personality disorders.  All with the hope of understanding and bettering who I am.
Someone once describe me as being tightly coiled like a spring – like one day I might finally snap.  I don’t feel like someone who might go on a shooting rampage.  But then the older I get the less I feel I know about myself.
I try to be chill.  But even when I’m listening to music (which I’ve only recently given myself permission to do again) or reading a book, I worry that I’m just escaping, disappearing so I don’t have to face the reality of my reality.
I’m stuck between eternal navel gazing and tapping out of my own life.
I can’t seem to find a balance.
As a child I learnt that feelings and expressing them were an inconvenience.  They made other people uncomfortable.
So instead I turned my discomfort into actions.
I became a human doing.