Music / Real life


IMAG1047Yes, load… not lode.

She is a hardened soul… forged from abject poverty, horrific childhood abuse, an utterly destructive first marriage and a pathetic attempt at a second one. Her one child is a disappointment to her while the other (me) reminds her unintentionally of all the missteps she made as a mother. The rest of her children died in her body.

i can trace her life… sad moment to the next… a veritable “how to” manual for the ruination of a life.

She is unhappy.

She is an alcoholic.

She has little family left and those that remain are estranged or have nothing in common with mother, a woman who ‘rose above her raisings’ in every way possible. She takes no pride in her accomplishments, it seems, but i see them. i bear witness to her strength and determination. i see – in her – an Amazon that was caged too long… squished down… limited.

my mother.

She never was much of a mother, really.

She provided shelter but not safety.

She gave me intelligence but not much in the way of love.

Mom. She’s slipping now, here and there. i can never tell if it’s the drink or a sign of dementia these days.

i wish that we had a better relationship… an easier way with one another. Ah, but she grips the bottle with far more determination than she ever held me.

She is heavy on my heart and mind right now – and i’m not certain why. i am exhausted. i wish to sleep. i do not want to think about her, and so i dump her… here.

i’ve found myself limiting the time i spend with her more and more… sidestepping landmines as it were. i let calls go to voicemail. That way, if her voice is liquor-thick, i can wait and call her later… or not at all.  More and more… it is not at all.

When i am forced to see her for what she is… what she has become… i must sit with the knowledge that i am powerless to help her.

i try to breathe… i remind myself… this is not my responsibility. This is not my problem. She is a big girl. She’s an adult.

Still, i worry, and in the most honest of moments in-between the worry, i feel the sharp edge of anger… ah, there it is… it just raised its venomous head. i can taste it – metallic – the anger. How dare she?


3 thoughts on “mother-load

  1. *nods* I have an alcoholic biological father. I understand that anger. I had to realize that by his actions (or lack thereof), he showed me he wanted very little to do with me. It’s not an easy pill to swallow.

    ~ Layla

  2. Dear one… so much lies behind these words, so much more that has not been spoken. I see you; the things you have allowed me to see, the ones that my intuition show me when you don’t, the dark places that no one, not even you, is allowed to go. I see you, and you are beautiful. I hold you in the warm, soft, red silence of my heart, may you find some comfort here.

  3. The hardest part for me, was recognizing and accepting– that we would never have the relationship I longed for. Our relationship would always involve a compromise on my part, a making peace with… a making do with… And then– even in the midst of brokenness– there was closure, there was wholeness. Everything comes to an end. Maybe not the end or by the means we prefer, but there is a peace, there is a place of finality– which is in its own way a peace.

    I am so familiar with that slice of anger. I was raging inside for years. FOR YEARS. How could she. How dare she. Why. Why… Why… WHY.

    In the end– it doesn’t matter, only we both know it does.


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