(Written in May 2004)
I’ve been reading The Secret Life of Bees, recommended to me by Alyssa. The ache in the heart of motherlessness, and the full juicyness of big loving women who can hold you with tenderness, and all the confusion of the feelings. Anger and love and yearning. Who was my real mother anyway? Was she beautiful and creative and adored me? Was she superficial and social and abandoned me? Do I hate her because she damaged my life so badly that I can’t really live it? Do I hate her because I see nothing in her that I can feel proud of, or honored by, or glad to transmit in my own life? I hate her because I’m ashamed to be the child of such a narrow-minded, stingy, egotistical, immature bitch. Nasty. (A lot like Clare really. Painfully co dependent, sure that everyone is leaving her out or taking advantage of her. Whining about how she is victimized, trying to get sympathy, then pretending that she’s on top of everything.)
Forgive my mom for being so mediocre?
Went to see Dave. Talked about Mother and being repelled by the thought of being in her body. “I hate her — I don’t have a single memory of warmth or tenderness — just the few times when she didn’t drink and we were able to have fun.” No words of wisdom, no sayings or actions that I learned from her except all the negative stuff “Don’t think you’re so great” that I internalized and continue to struggle with. Compassion, yes, I feel compassion for her — she wasn’t mothered either — her isolating pride, her bondage to alcohol, her shame about not being a better parent or person that she would not let herself feel, so she just turned it into toxic criticism of her children. It’s OK to not love your mother, it’s OK to be ashamed of her, it’s OK to feel sad that she wasted her life. But I was off center for the weekend (Beltane) which was a disappointment. I couldn’t really enjoy the good celebration I had made possible. Then difficulty with a friend and coming to the place of seeing that it’s legitimate to protect myself. Dave said “How does that feel in your body?” I noticed the tension of my arms, hands holding neck and jaw, my crossed legs pressing against each other. A lot of tension — holding myself in? — but in my abdomen there’s something — I think of maple flowers, delicate and red — and a flower begins to unfold, red, muscular, almost fleshy, or unfurling like amaryllis or iris. It reminds me of the Red Woman, how she got painted, how I felt her behind me, pleased with everything I did because it was me doing it. Pleased with my creativity that’s unfolding, powerfully, unstoppable, from my second chakra. I can still feel her, behind me, backing me up. This is my real mother.