Conditionals

My mom was depressed and wasn’t able to make use of her amazing insurance to get proper help. She had her faith and her quotes. She needed someone to talk to and it wasn’t me.

My mother was hurting and I didn’t understand however I felt it. I grew up hiding within myself dealing with my own confusion of adolescence and believed that my sister would be enough for support since they were so alike. My mother and sister looked alike. When we would go out , people would automatically understand they were mother and daughter regardless of the skin tone difference. When people saw me they would say, “You don’t look like your mother, is she your mother?” They would ask this as if a man is not needed to make a child. This sentence would trigger me so I would say I was adopted so they would walk away feeling satisfied in their ignorance. If I engaged in this conversation it would end with the person no longer speaking to me .

I was hurt every time someone verbalised this separation between my mother and I. It was if they were manifesting our separation. I was sullen and secretive of my feelings because like my mother and her mother before her and so on… no one spoke about their feelings, you just prayed them away.

I was distant with my mother for issues that she wasn’t aware of or she wasn’t sure how to address them in me. She would have my sister as her representative and I would feel agitated when she did that. I became protective of my intimacy and held everyone at two arms length although I only wanted their closeness.

We had a confounding relationship and yet I would destroy anyone for her and my sister. I didn’t know everything yet I tried to protect her with my distance and I also hurt her with my distance . I wanted to speak to my mother about everything that was troubling me yet she was working her main job and building her company while going through a divorce. I was in school. Our time never seemed to matched up. My sister was able to bond and I couldn’t and it bothered me.

When I was little , my mother was my best friend; I truly didn’t need anyone else. I don’t think I have ever advanced past this stage and have felt a betrayal because we grew up and life happened and she kept me out in order to keep me safe. I grew up wanting that quality to continue however her life changed and I could see it yet she never shared with me. So I hid within myself in my own home in plain sight. I hid with for my emotional safety and have left it on auto-pilot ever since .

Later in life she had told me she didn’t think we needed to know out of fear of hurting our wellbeing She grew up in a lovely home that was filled with trauma. I know parents think kids don’t see , but they do; I did. Telling ” white lies” is still a lie. I felt the energy of trauma yet I wasn’t sure of the details and no one would tell me outside of me ease dropping in adult conversations in passing and I would hear some of my relatives saying the worst things about my mother. In those moments I would plot my revenge as her protector and cause them hurt later with my words. I feel for my sister, trapped in the middle of this with her own developmental concerns while absorbing this energy of discontent. I wanted to save my family.

My mother was hurting , she cried often and in private. I have inherited this. She was a shy extrovert and her life propelled her into a fearful reclusive person. I became a risky introvert just to feel alive. We loved each other but I wish I could have done better. Death makes you time travel. I go through her books filled with her penmanship, with her loops and elegant P’s and Q’s. I learned her signature as a child mainly because I thought it was beautiful. I have her book of thoughts. I read her words and remember seeing her writing them. . All I have now is her handwritten thoughts. I think about the stories she had told us about her childhood and about bits of her life that she kept inside while raising her children. I remember all I saw with my overly observant eyes . We missed opportunities to repair and nourish our family of three.

My mother lived the majority of her life hurting and without proper support. My sister lives guarding her new little family in a reclusive way. I live a life going back to the past to have a future.

I feel like I am living a third conditional life.

Tomorrow

He is looking at models on his phone. He is laying beside me and looking. He looks at them like a computer. He looks at everything -calculated and precise. He gives little room for errror. He looks and looks and then he finds the one. The perfect match.

She is a model, 23 yrs old. She has sun-kissed brown skin like me. She has his tired eyes, my nose,  his forehead and my almond shape face. She is tall and thin like him.

He turns to me, smiles and says this is her.

Who is she?

A model.

I hope you are not asking to look like her because it’s not happening. Plus I can’t grow any taller.

Lol, no fattylicious….she is what are kid would look like..

How long have you been thinking of this?

A while now. It’s a fixation.

In so many ways my workaholic boyfriend says the things I need to hear. He knows all. He is a computer of a man. Luckily, he has humour or we would have faded.

Yet, he is a workaholic. He lives for his first born-his company. I think of what kind of life we have and it’s really warm. However, there are many faint days because his work takes him away so much.

I wonder if I would take our story for granted or he me. I wonder if we can have a family. I wonder what he will think of my little lost family. I have no “dowry” of sorts.  I am a screwup.

He is flawed too, however in an over perfectionist A -type manner. He comes from comfort and unumeral resources. He has it good and he works to keep it so.
I am thinking of my financial woes, student loans and my credit card debt. My ADD way of changing occupation as my mood changes.
My family is broken on a personal level, yet they are mine. I love them. Could he?
Would his mother love me? After all, he’s her baby. Her only family, more or less.

I ask him, how would we survive?

Easy …don’t ever let go.
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Foolish Daughter

How can I be so powerful yet so dependent on the affections of a man? How is it so? What is the curse that I “believe ” in what he thinks, feels, and understands … he is just a man. What is the curse that I take so much more meaning of his feeling towards me, that have some how overrided MY feeling and attitude about me.

How can this be? My body can carry life, harbour it until it is ready to leave the shore. I am the power, the nature, the nurture, the magic. I am so lost on this constant cycle I experience , as well, women I know.

He is not all, yet I make him so.

I am still the little girl waitng for her daddy to really fight for her.  He never did nor will he. He is content in his  inadquate space in my life. He is not trying to be more. He never tried. I know daddy issues are my key problem. I know he never was a fighter. He was never a brave man.

My dad  just exist.

I see this reflected in my relationships. I want bravery. The little girl in me knows her dad is not a defender yet she keeps hoping. The woman in me pushes on and yet is still holding hands with the little girl ..waiting to see.  If maybe.

In all the debacle, the mother is left holding the world in one hand and her children in the other. The children , especially the eldest, me. I take for granted so much of what she did and does because I was waiting on my dad, to be brave.

I neglected the true warrior. The bravest, boldest, gentliest human ever-my mother. The true life force. I kept looking past her and not at her. I was and am  a foolish daughter.

I am lucky .  My mother is still alive. I am given time to rectify the misguidance of my younger self. Hopefully, it  will start to reflect in my relationships.

I love both my parents. But I am in love with my mother.

 

Lover

My lover is missing, for I cannot find him. Actually, I haven’t met him, yet. “Yet”is all I can say to keep hope alive. “Yet , yet, yet ” I hope this phase will finally end and my lover will be. My lover is what I want and need. Why is this concept so hard to achieve? My friends want husbands and boyfriends and I, my lover.  My lover to share a warm bath with, to travel with, to read to,  to kiss, touch, to love and share a bed every night.
My lover is missing.