I’m still in October with my reading, so I suppose it is no big surprise that I’m behind on my composing as well. Now I’ve got an infection in one of the fingers of my right (good) hand, so today I’m typing with three fingers (more accurately, with two fingers and a thumb). At the rate I’m going I’ll have mastered typing with any number of fingers or hands. 🙂
I’ve been working on a poem in my head, but it’s not finished enough to try sharing it here. At least in the middle of all this my brain is still working.
I’m dealing as well with fallout from my childhood. Nothing unusual in that, but it still amazes me that the woman has so much effect on me after so many years. After all these years, I still don’t know if she means well. If I have any contact with her, even today, she says the most awful things – but I can tell she is trying. So what am I to do with that? I avoid contact because I have to for the sake of my mental health; not because I blame her or even though sometimes I hate her. I get over it. Even though I couldn’t help but pass on some of the awful to my kids, I do not blame her for not being better than she is. I am sorry for her. It is so sad.
There is some part of her that is still trying to destroy me. So the ‘trying’ doesn’t add up to much. I mean, she can get through two or three sentences that are unexceptionable, and then the vileness comes out. I was visiting someone who – like my mother – says the most awful things. She doesn’t mean to be awful, she just doesn’t for one second think of the effect of her words on others. This time the awful wasn’t directed at me or my kids, so I could sit on the sidelines and watch as someone was really hurt and offended by her, but really couldn’t say anything back. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be so offensive. I’m equally sure that avoiding her is my best choice of action going forward if I don’t want to be the target at some other time. Meaning well with no positive action to change the offending behaviour doesn’t do any good.
The thing is I see positive action in my mother. She makes attempts all the time but always ends up reverting to the hurtful behaviour. I do love her – I was enmeshed with her for years – and didn’t have to stop loving her, even if I did and do hate her sometimes as well. She has no boundaries, you see. None.
So here I sit, fifty + years old (how did that happen?) still caught up to some extent in my mother’s illness. So it goes, I guess. At least none of my kids has to avoid contact with me because I’m trying to destroy them – even if one or another might for other reasons. Recovery from abuse seems to be a multi-generational effort. The scary thought is that my mother was a better parent than her own were. Really scary. Hmm.
She tried. She is trying. That matters, even if meaning well is no excuse.
That’s all my three fingers can manage today. Thanks for reading.