I don't know where to start. I feel like the whole world is spinning, whirling madly out of control. I keep trying my best to say to myself, everything is okay, your safe, this is fine. I have my husband, my daughter, my dog. That's basically the big things. I have Sandi, my relationship with home I struggle often to define. To me, she is a loving friend, family, but it's hard for me to define the meaning of that idea just now.
I have my PC, all my techno gadgets, a nice bed to sleep in. I can turn the air conditioning down to 72 degrees if I really want, which as far as I can tell in the blistering Phoenix heat actually gets the house down to about 78 degrees. That's nice. I have satellite TV, Netflix, high-speed internet and all that. I don't have to use up all my food feeding other people besides my daughter, husband and I. The three of us get the whole top floor essentially to ourselves: two bedrooms, a double bathroom, and a loft/family room. We're remodeling, which is a chore in itself but the results are a promise of hope. The results will allow us to use this space in a comfortable way, a way that allows to share the space with ease.The bedrooms are a little tight, but that's not too bad. These are the little things, really. These are the good parts that are easy to talk about.
I'm going to really miss hearing my Dad blundering in the front door; I'm going to miss having people always mulling about. I'm going to miss the three cats that wander aimlessly through the house; Jaid with her loud and prissy complaints, Muffassa who lies on the back on the sectional couch as if he is a big fat cat-shaped cushion himself. I even miss the squawking of Mr. Grey (A.K.A. Baby, or Mr. Bird). I miss having a huge bedroom and having a king-size bed, having room for my giant dresser and all my book shelves. The shelves might make it, I doubt we could even get the dresser up the stairs, it's solid wood and gigantic. I miss the enormous kitchen, I miss the cool tiles beneath my feet. I will miss the garden as dearly as a beloved pet. I miss the little glow-in-dark stars, the coke-bottle ceiling-fan, the wall paper banner with classic cars running around the room.
Just the little things, these are. These aren't the things that really matter. I do miss them though.
I feel just a little relief in saying that, a little. This weight in my heart is so heavy, there are moments when I feel as if my heart with explode in my chest. I have been told by therapists again and again to mother the sad little girl that lives there, and as hilarious and pathetic that might sound to begin with, I am trying. The options are, use the odd metaphor of the infantile self, or carry the wounds forever and go insane. So I try to mother her. Right now, she is an orphan in a strange place, terrifying things are happening all around her, and everything she knows and loves has been torn away. She has no one but me to comfort her, I can't pretend she's not there.
So I am sitting down with her and talking to her. But see, here's the painful part. I look at her and she reminds me so much of my own daughter, this little girl I once was, this little girl inside of me. I don't know how to make her safe, not then, not now, not ever, not really. I try to talk to her like I talk to my own daughter when she's hurting, when life turns upside down, when people do bad things to her who she should be able to trust. I say, Baby girl, it's not your fault. You are a good girl, and you do the best you can, and you deserve to be loved in the best of all possible ways. Sweet heart, those things they said to you aren't true. I know they tried to make you believe a lot of things. They tried to tell you that you are bad, and that you are a failure, baby it's okay. I know they shamed you to the core, I know it hurts. It was wrong for them to do that to you, sweet girl. You are precious. You are beautiful, and you are priceless. I'm so sorry baby. I love you. I'm here. I'm here. I promise. I will do everything I can to keep you safe. \
And now I'm crying. I just feel helpless. I'm supposed to work on this trauma, all the pain. I'm supposed to start in good a place and write about my relationship with my husband Lux, a good relationship. I'm supposed to be an adult woman, not this terrified little girl. Of course that assignment was given before this happened. Before my world got picked up like a cereal box, and me and all the other contents dumped out like so many cheerios.
I have seen so many other women like me; men too, but they have even more pressure to hide it. People who have been hurt, neglected, or abandoned in childhood (aren't most of us, in some way?) and seem irrevocably broken. We have a tendency of hating ourselves with a remarkable intensity, a tendency of having unstable and damaging relationships, for all manner of self-destructive behavior, and an abiding spite for a world that seems to have nothing to offer. This is why despite my fierce and overwhelming love for my daughter, I wept for her time after time while I carried her in my womb, before she was even born. I'm sorry, I thought. Forgive me, I begged of this unborn child. The world is a terrible, awful place much of the time. No one asks to be born. They just are, and each of us has to determine, or perhaps try to create, or see, enough good in the world to counterweight the bad, enough beauty to make up for the pain. I'm not the greatest parent, but my daughter is one of those things that make it worth it for me. I am so grateful for her. I just wish I had more to offer, and with every failure I feel it myself also. I feel the uncertainty of the child who sees terror in her mother's eyes, the confusion and pain and helplessness of the child who sees her mother sob inconsolably. I try to smile and laugh, I try hard to act like I know exactly what going on, and I have a plan, and I know that everything will be okay.
But I don't. I probably should understand that everything will be okay but I don't. I feel like I am a little girl right now and I'm a little girl trying to be Mommy to another little girl while the world falls apart around us. I want more than anything to find the "grown-up" inside me, the real Mama inside me, and say to myself and to my daughter, it's okay. You are loved, you are safe, everything will be okay. We will always have our family, you will not be abandoned. Beyond anything, I would never leave her in body or heart, but I can't say the same for others who had claimed to love of us, promised to care for us, hold us dear, value us. This is what breaks my heart, a pain so deep I seem to have little consolation to offer.
I have my PC, all my techno gadgets, a nice bed to sleep in. I can turn the air conditioning down to 72 degrees if I really want, which as far as I can tell in the blistering Phoenix heat actually gets the house down to about 78 degrees. That's nice. I have satellite TV, Netflix, high-speed internet and all that. I don't have to use up all my food feeding other people besides my daughter, husband and I. The three of us get the whole top floor essentially to ourselves: two bedrooms, a double bathroom, and a loft/family room. We're remodeling, which is a chore in itself but the results are a promise of hope. The results will allow us to use this space in a comfortable way, a way that allows to share the space with ease.The bedrooms are a little tight, but that's not too bad. These are the little things, really. These are the good parts that are easy to talk about.
I'm going to really miss hearing my Dad blundering in the front door; I'm going to miss having people always mulling about. I'm going to miss the three cats that wander aimlessly through the house; Jaid with her loud and prissy complaints, Muffassa who lies on the back on the sectional couch as if he is a big fat cat-shaped cushion himself. I even miss the squawking of Mr. Grey (A.K.A. Baby, or Mr. Bird). I miss having a huge bedroom and having a king-size bed, having room for my giant dresser and all my book shelves. The shelves might make it, I doubt we could even get the dresser up the stairs, it's solid wood and gigantic. I miss the enormous kitchen, I miss the cool tiles beneath my feet. I will miss the garden as dearly as a beloved pet. I miss the little glow-in-dark stars, the coke-bottle ceiling-fan, the wall paper banner with classic cars running around the room.
Just the little things, these are. These aren't the things that really matter. I do miss them though.
I feel just a little relief in saying that, a little. This weight in my heart is so heavy, there are moments when I feel as if my heart with explode in my chest. I have been told by therapists again and again to mother the sad little girl that lives there, and as hilarious and pathetic that might sound to begin with, I am trying. The options are, use the odd metaphor of the infantile self, or carry the wounds forever and go insane. So I try to mother her. Right now, she is an orphan in a strange place, terrifying things are happening all around her, and everything she knows and loves has been torn away. She has no one but me to comfort her, I can't pretend she's not there.
So I am sitting down with her and talking to her. But see, here's the painful part. I look at her and she reminds me so much of my own daughter, this little girl I once was, this little girl inside of me. I don't know how to make her safe, not then, not now, not ever, not really. I try to talk to her like I talk to my own daughter when she's hurting, when life turns upside down, when people do bad things to her who she should be able to trust. I say, Baby girl, it's not your fault. You are a good girl, and you do the best you can, and you deserve to be loved in the best of all possible ways. Sweet heart, those things they said to you aren't true. I know they tried to make you believe a lot of things. They tried to tell you that you are bad, and that you are a failure, baby it's okay. I know they shamed you to the core, I know it hurts. It was wrong for them to do that to you, sweet girl. You are precious. You are beautiful, and you are priceless. I'm so sorry baby. I love you. I'm here. I'm here. I promise. I will do everything I can to keep you safe. \
And now I'm crying. I just feel helpless. I'm supposed to work on this trauma, all the pain. I'm supposed to start in good a place and write about my relationship with my husband Lux, a good relationship. I'm supposed to be an adult woman, not this terrified little girl. Of course that assignment was given before this happened. Before my world got picked up like a cereal box, and me and all the other contents dumped out like so many cheerios.
I have seen so many other women like me; men too, but they have even more pressure to hide it. People who have been hurt, neglected, or abandoned in childhood (aren't most of us, in some way?) and seem irrevocably broken. We have a tendency of hating ourselves with a remarkable intensity, a tendency of having unstable and damaging relationships, for all manner of self-destructive behavior, and an abiding spite for a world that seems to have nothing to offer. This is why despite my fierce and overwhelming love for my daughter, I wept for her time after time while I carried her in my womb, before she was even born. I'm sorry, I thought. Forgive me, I begged of this unborn child. The world is a terrible, awful place much of the time. No one asks to be born. They just are, and each of us has to determine, or perhaps try to create, or see, enough good in the world to counterweight the bad, enough beauty to make up for the pain. I'm not the greatest parent, but my daughter is one of those things that make it worth it for me. I am so grateful for her. I just wish I had more to offer, and with every failure I feel it myself also. I feel the uncertainty of the child who sees terror in her mother's eyes, the confusion and pain and helplessness of the child who sees her mother sob inconsolably. I try to smile and laugh, I try hard to act like I know exactly what going on, and I have a plan, and I know that everything will be okay.
But I don't. I probably should understand that everything will be okay but I don't. I feel like I am a little girl right now and I'm a little girl trying to be Mommy to another little girl while the world falls apart around us. I want more than anything to find the "grown-up" inside me, the real Mama inside me, and say to myself and to my daughter, it's okay. You are loved, you are safe, everything will be okay. We will always have our family, you will not be abandoned. Beyond anything, I would never leave her in body or heart, but I can't say the same for others who had claimed to love of us, promised to care for us, hold us dear, value us. This is what breaks my heart, a pain so deep I seem to have little consolation to offer.
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