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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You’re the victim.

I am no mere victim in my own life.

I have been harmed and in being harmed I have harmed others.

I’ve shouted.  I’ve lied.  I’ve hit.  I’ve hated and hissed venom.

I’ve wished for and said the most awful things to those closest to me.

And often I’ve felt nothing but justified.

Remorse is hard.  It’s a thing I have to work on.

I’ve never really seen it.  I know people apologise.  I know it’s an integral part of any relationship.  But the words often sit like a lead weight in my throat.

I’d rather drive my car into a lake.

Is that a fear of being vulnerable?

Or is it really that deep down/right below the surface, I’m a despicable, self centred ego maniac, just attempting to be human?

I’m trying to fit in.  I want to be the good person other people see I am.

But maybe I’m a wolf in sheeps clothing.  Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.

 

 

 

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.