Mum

It isn’t really her fault. She doesn’t have to be a model mother or so supportive like those tv moms. There’s love but as I think about our relationship and my sisters I feel like she never really accepted us. I might be wrong, she did grow and became more comfortable with our choices, but the way it is is one of molding and criticism, negativism towards an intended goal. We were supposed to end up a proscribed way. That could be the way of all mothers, all families, wanting the best and pushing us out of the nest to fly. But I wouldn’t have done it the same way. When I entertain the idea of having kids I see myself being different, finding my own balance of nature vs. nurture. There are plenty of good things to say about her, we had fun, she laughed and cried, a lot, so I owe thanks for not being too damaged or misogynistic. But would I want some Brady Bunch mom? I don’t even understand my own expectations.  I was so angry at the family from anger at myself, anger for being born this way and anger for being lost and feeling alone the more people liked me. I hated myself so I projected hate onto them and thought they were the problem. Dysfunction was the key to my undoing. How could I be whole coming from pieces? Taking stock in yourself means being honest. Column A and column B need to merge and my picture sees me as a passive agent and an active one. Things done to me things I did to myself and others; Katamari ball laying wreckage. I am not whole, not empty, not happy, not sinking. I am on the escalator of being in the moment fidgeting and trying to pace my arrival. There are no faults only people and the human stain.

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