The Ghost
I have no children of my own. but I have many fears of the day when I do, wondering if I will do it right.
But, there is a ghost, a fractured little girl who dances in the grassy meadows of my heart, I am her mother.
I look at the woman who brought me life, and I can recall a time not so long ago that her beautiful face contorted with tsunamis of emotion, rage and pain and so much sadness. I always wondered what I had done, what was wrong with me, that made her hate every move I made. I remember once, spitting and screaming she told me she hoped I’d have a kid like me one day, maybe then I would understand. I remember being forced to spend every second she wanted watching my brothers or cleaning the house. She’d get mad if I wanted to see my friends, get even angrier if I wanted privacy. I couldn’t comprehend how, I’m so few years of life, I had become the target of her unbridled and constant shifting emotions. But, I understand now, though I have no children of my own.
Gentle, curious, kind, and so fearless in love is that little girl in the meadow, twirling her fingers around the reeds and smiling at the sun. She knows pain, anger, sadness too. But, she remembers the summer air through the passenger window of mom’s Camaro, the sound of the terracotta dirt road beneath the tires and Shania Twain on the radio. She can recall the sound of Mom losing her mind in the bathroom when her hair turned out strawberry blonde, not light blonde. That little girl cried when mom cried, laughed and danced and sang with her too.
When Mom got lost, that little girl and me were all alone with all these feelings, and for so long I tried to forget her. I only remembered the bad times, the isolation and loneliness of growing up too fast because nobody wanted to raise me.
I had to sit down with that little girl, bring my shadows into her sunny meadow, and apologize for adding myself to the list of people who walked out on her.
“But I’m here now.”
You know this story. The Sword and the Shield.
But, I wish I could’ve been Mom’s mom too. I wish I could‘ve taught her to love herself so she wouldn’t go through decades of trauma to discover loving other people wouldn’t fix how empty she felt. I’d be there at the door the night she came home, 17 and pregnant, and I’d love her unconditionally as she deserves. I’d wipe her tears and set aside any judgement, I’d help her find a way to cope and thrive in this situation.
My mother tried so hard, in her own way, and made my mistakes in blindness that I perceived as malice. She’d forgotten about the little girl she was, what it felt like to be “loved” as her parents loved her, the pain became normal. It wasn’t until I reared my ugliest head, kicking and screaming for years that it was wrong, that she began to question that sense of normalcy.
Love isn’t suppose to be painful, it’s not supposed to be turbulent, but this life of mine, this journey is one I wouldn’t change.
I love myself.
I love that ghost in the meadow.
and I love you, mom.