I tend to start feeling pensive this time of year. I’m pretty sure the end of this month is my mother’s birthday; maybe the 30th of January.
A tidbit I must have gleaned somewhere along the way. Because I only met her twice.
As that day draws near, I begin to think of her. Sometimes I’m angry. Other times I just feel sorry for her. For the relationship we never had the opportunity to have.
I’d like to get good and mad at her for walking away from me. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her decision. I doubt she made decisions.
More A Child Than A Woman:
From what I gather, she’s always been more of a child than a woman.
She and her mother, my grandmother, were so much alike in their childishness. So it must be genetic. Something in their brain didn’t allow them to grow up.
Since it runs in the family, I think it was possibly a form of autism. Not high functioning autism. But the other end of the spectrum.
Still, that does not heal what’s inside of me.
You’d think whatever a mother feels when she gives birth, the symbolic umbilical cord would never get severed. And so this would cause a women to fight like hell before walking away from her baby.
But having grown up around her mother, my grandmother, I know they merely acquiesce. They do what they’re told. I watched my grandmother do that the entire time I lived with her.
Whatever my granny, my great-grandmother said, she automatically obeyed. Without complaint.
And it pains me to say that I didn’t have much patience with my grandmother either.
When Someone Isn’t Capable Of Consent:
You can be angry. But when someone isn’t mentally capable of consent, they can’t really own what happened.
Which makes it even more difficult sometimes, at this time of year, for me to feel forgiveness. I dawdle back and forth. I’m mad at my mother, and yet I’m not. I don’t even know her.
Whatever happened when I was six weeks old, I know deep down that my mother and father did me a favor.
My childhood might have been a box of shadows, but it was otherwise fairly normal.
I was fed and clothed and had a roof over my head. Yet I know that my siblings, all five of them scattered about, did not always have the basics.
Children Who Don’t Grow Up:
The fact is, two women got the short end of the stick from birth onward. They would remain “children” all their lives.
So how can you blame them when intellectually you know this?
Both my mother and my grandmother were just two little girls who never really grew up.
It buffers my anger because there’s nowhere, and no one, culpable for what happened to me.
In the state of my anger, I could stand and throw a dart, but there is no feasible target.
Whatever I feel is tempered and diluted. You can’t fine tune an instrument that makes no sound.
Hurt & Anger Rises Like A Balloon:
With no one to direct it toward, hurt and anger rises up like a balloon.
The string to that balloon is in my hand. I know that eventually I have to let go of the balloon. I can’t just stand there holding onto it all my life.
And so I do. I let go and watch it rise higher and higher up into the air. Until it becomes a dot in the sky and is finally out of sight.
I know it is the only choice I ever really had to begin with. But that doesn’t ease how I feel.
Inside The Balloon:
Inside that balloon are all the tumultuous feelings I’ve bottled up inside.
And now the vessel I placed them in for safekeeping is way up there somewhere in the blue, blue sky.
Can you see something that isn’t there?
The birthdays, the days one remembers because they’re stuck in your brain, are really of no consequence. Just days without purpose.
Like an empty box waiting to be filled.
“One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind.” – Charles Dickens