I never wanted things to be like this,
All messy, crying and blubbering,
My skeleton draped with skin, old and saggy,
Fat bulging in places I’ve denied attention,
Divorced,
Shunned, even.
My house full to the brim with clutter,
From over the years…
So many of the ex’s things rusting… rotting…
Him tossing loose change over every once in a while, to assist.
I never thought I’d be alone,
Nearing fifty,
Unemployed, depressed,
Unable to lift a smile from the edges of my mouth
To shield the world from my suffering.
I thought I could do that forever
But I can’t. I won’t.
I never thought I’d be lost, tossing in the sea of humankind
Hopeful to find one person, just one to be a friend…
When there were so many before,
I was always surrounded, sought out,
and bursting with people who I thought loved me.
What a reality slap.
There are only a few left after shaking things up.
I cherish them with all my might. Such kindred souls.
I’ll meet more good people.
I’ve given unworthy people enough of my precious life.
Enough.
I never thought I’d be motherless.
My own mother, less
than fifteen miles from where I stand,
She’s probably in bed, snoring,
Dreams of heaven and Jesus flooding her viewport,
Fully unaware of the pain she’s caused,
Only seeing the pain she’s felt…
Only the things I’ve done in retaliation to her over-parenting.
To her overbearing helicopter stalking nightmare mothering.
I was a fucking adult!
Lets not bring up when I was a child…
I never thought I’d be an orphan.
I am, though; my father is dead;
My mother is absent,
Her husband can’t be counted. He deserves nothing from me.
He’s taken enough.
I can’t help but resent Younger Me for my weakness:
I think, “I should have killed him that day…”
My step dad. My tormentor.
I stood at the fork in the road, the butcher knife in my hands
I clutched the knife that could have ended all our pain.
I could have snuffed out all these years of suffering
even my children have suffered at his hands.
If I’d have listened to the bold voice inside
–the inner Me that wanted to survive,
She witnessed the torture. She wanted it to end.
She knew what had been snuffed, what had been shunted out, shunned, dejected, ejected.
She even called it: she knew they’d support the leader, not the scapegoat.
It was truth.
I can trust Inner Me. She knows.
I never thought I’d say out loud that
I could never trust my mother to be who I needed her to be.
When I needed comfort I was shoved to the side,
When I needed direction I was ridiculed and mocked,
When I needed belonging I was sorely shown I had none.
She’s got all she needs.
She is who my stepfather needs; he is the only who that she “needs.”
He wins my mother. I quit.
It’s really not worth it, anymore.
It’s not a chase, no fun, not a goal…
I’m far too old. Far too tired of the game.
I cannot stand these thoughts that billow forth,
Frothing at my ears, my eyes, mouth, and nose.
Who put these futuristic failures in there?
Who made me doubt my self?
Why wasn’t self confidence installed into my program,
Only self doubt.
Mom would rather I refer to her for my big decisions.
She has never trusted me to adult on my own,
Because she was shit at it.
I succeeded and it surprised her.
She projected.
Then, she repeated what her father said to her,
“I’m so disappointed in you.”
For what? For failing?
How was that supposed to help?
AND
When did you support me so that wouldn’t happen?
When you said nothing after I was abused? When you pretended nothing happened?
When you looked the other way and told me to forgive him?
How did you prepare me? You never instructed.
Your role-modeling was shit.
I’ve lived my life doing everything like you didn’t.
Even as a child I knew you knew nothing.
Nothing
…but to crush anyone who wasn’t like you.
I feel my concerns rise up like bile;
Searing lava up the vent & billowing out,
To burn through my ribcage and return inward,
To obliterate the chasm it was imprisoned in.
Me.
Often in self destruct mode.
This is what you created with your abuse, Mom.
This is how I run things inside.
I doubt and fear and concern
I double second-guess every move I make.
Is it good? Am I sure?
First response is: I should check with her first…
Mom, did you want this for me?
I never envisioned myself in this space,
Doing what I’m doing, feeling how I feel.
I thought I would succeed better, somehow,
I’d be snuggled up in a lovely house
With a barbeque in the back yard for my husband to invite
My friends’ husbands over…
We’d all swim in my pool,
Drink my beer,
And sing songs until bedtime.
Instead, I dig out from the rubble,
The house of my youth crumbling around me…
I have to rebuild. Make new. Start again.
Create a new path. New people. New family. New friends.
I’m meeting myself,
Hello. I had no idea I loved those things.
I had no idea I had my own ideas.
I’m one of the beautiful people?
I had no idea!
Before. I only expressed Mom’s desires,
Mom’s wants, dreams, fears…
I kept a smile, constantly.
If I didn’t, “Your bottom lip is dragging on the carpet, Huffy.”
I cease following Mom’s fears
No more trying making her happy.
When do I get to be happy?
I never thought I’d be stuck in the puddle I’m in.
I didn’t ever consider being buried alive in responsibility.
It never occurred to me I’d reach a breaking point.
I thought I could handle anything.
I couldn’t have fathomed what my mother could dish out.
Her destruction is final. Bridges burned from both sides.
I see no return.
I thought I could handle what life threw at me.
Apparently not.
I didn’t know she was in control of my life so thoroughly.
Now it’s my life.
Mine.
I never thought I’d be pressured to stay in a house for 20 more years,
A house I was content with surrendering not long ago.
As a little girl I dreamed of growing up,
Of flying around the earth in airplanes,
meeting new people everywhere.
I dreamed I’d be married some day to a nice man.
We’d raise our children with love and kindness.
I dreamed I’d own my own fancy car,
I’d have nice things.
I’d be healthy, pretty, sexy even…
I once lived the American Dream
–but I was in Denial.
I was supposed to be happy.
I had everything.
When I was a child my future was supposed to be mine.
Not hers.
I thought I’d be happy!
Why couldn’t I be happy?
As soon as my life became my own,
My choices my own, I found my Happiness.
It’s in there.
I’ve grown so tired of being sorrowful,
fearful, wary, intense,
untrusting, skeptical, and weak
–so weak!
I need to callous, grow the thick skin.
abrasive to toxicity.
Repellent of abuse.
And as I heal the questions keep coming up,
Why can’t I speak up for myself?
Why do I see people in authority as a threat?
Why does leadership terrify me?
Why do I doubt my worthiness?
Why do I dread my potential. Does it scare me?
Why?
Mom, that’s why.
Each time I became wordy, spoke my heart,
Spoke my truth,
She’d say,
“Ask me if I care.”
Did you ever care, Mom?
You said you loved me but your actions showed otherwise.
Why didn’t you care?
You can stop the lie.
All you care about is what other people and your god will think/do.
You don’t care about anything else.
Why do you think I did all the things I did, the way I did them?
Because that’s how YOU trained me to.
I lived for everyone else, at their comfort level.
Not mine.
I received the message, Mom: I’m not important.
You were.
No matter. I don’t need you any more.
Besides,
To have you is agony.
You come in a package with hell.
To need you is to suffer.
To want you is to die inside.
To hope for you is to cripple myself.
Waiting… Hoping…. just like in childhood.
Familiar, but no more.
My radical acceptance is here.
You do not have the ability to love me
Not as I’ve needed.
It’s not within your grasp.
it’s too much for you.
I demand too much.
I remind you you’re not enough.
That you weren’t enough for him, either…
The mirror is so hard to look into.
But it’s so good.
I’m breaking up with you. It’s over.
I can’t pretend anymore.
I can’t pretend I’m interested in the things you love. I’ve tried them.
They’re empty promises; fantasy. I find no solace.
I’ve found a parent inside myself and she’s supportive,
She wants the best for me, she seeks out what is most beneficial for me,
She’s invested in me, says I belong.
She even listens.
She’s me.
And I care.