An Intimate Blog

My oldest sent a message to me day before yesterday.  It lead me to type up my own personal response, nothing I'd send to her in return but more of an opportunity to release some cognitive components rather than barracading them deep within as I so regularly do.

In reading her message, it triggered an array of emotions.   I initially felt proud of what she wrote but then I felt doubt, self-judgment, loss, regret and sorrow.  It’s odd how a thoughtful message from her triggered so many emotions within me.

This is what she had to say …..

“I’ve been thinking about you lot today mom.. I am so lucky to have such a strong role model in my life. I’ve never known such strength could come from so much hurt, confusion and pain you have had throughout your life.  Starting from adoption, then what your adoptive dad did to you, to an abusive marriage, then divorce… It surprises me that you never let go of your life and stayed head strong.  I can only wish to be half as much as you were to us.  If anything, through that you have taught me that to never give up and to get right back when life kicks you down.  You amaze me at how much love you had to give to us despite everything.  I love you mom. I hope you are feeling better.  Thanks for being MY mom!”

It exemplifies the strength she sees in me.  The strength she witnessed in the mother role protecting her cubs.  Her defining “strength” were actions stemming from negative experiences that impacted me as a child.  I swore I’d be a better parent when I became a parent.  I'd love them unconditionally.  I'd do the best to build their esteem and confidence.  I'd encourage their individual strengths.  I'd support them as they dreamed.  I'd teach them to rely on no one, to be independent beings first.  I’d do more.  I’d protect. 

Even in doing the best with the tools I had been given, I still reflect often and think of what I could have done better as their mother.  I think about how I should have left their father sooner.  I think about how I should have argued less in their presence. I think of how their innocence was exposed to violence and rage.  I think about the controlling behaviors I allowed myself to be ruled by and with.  I sadly think about the fear they endured in regards to my safety during their young lives.  I have much regret in not being able to find this so called "strength" she speaks of sooner than I did and I always think how I should have done better by them.  I am their mother.  They deserved that from me.

I come across as a fairly confident person and probably in a lot of ways, I am.  I have perfected the ability to convey that to others well.  I can smile during conversation and elude to others that life is grand. Most people think I have it all together.  I'm of average intelligence even though my individual emotional intelligence is at an all time low.  My kids think I’m Supermom and my grandchildren as they grow older think I am Super Lola. 

But, I’m not.  In all my strength, I’m weak.

I have fears. So instinctively I run.

I need. So I push away. 

I cling.  It reiterates I’m weak.

I’m torn. I'm sure I will always be.

Most of all, I’m damaged.

I live in my own personal emotional hell.  Yet, I have no one to blame but myself. 

I steal my own happiness.  I rob myself of my own joy.  Because to allow myself to be happy would mean that I’m worthy or deserving of it.

And to meet me or to be acquainted with me, you’d never even know.  Why?  Because I’m good at keeping people at a distance.  And why shouldn’t I be good at it?  I’ve been doing it almost as far back as my memories will take me.

Sure, I can talk about what I did over the holidays and I can talk about what I did at work or even over the weekend.  Big whoopdee shit, that’s easy.  It’s the experiences that cause me to recheck the locks on the doors at night or hell even during the day that I refuse to talk about.  It's those same fucked up experiences that led me into marrying a man that was much like my adoptive father, abusive.  Those experiences fester beneath the surface and sub-consciously affect my life. 

After years of hiding pain and hurts, I’ve gotten good at it.  Damn good at it.  Sadly, it’s almost a prideful success.  I'm good at acting like I'm okay.  I'm fine I tell ya.  Temporarily fine because the door to those emotions is closed.

I continue to convince myself of the delusion of being able to deal when it’s not really dealing at all. I’m merely avoiding.  Avoiding the emotional tide that is just waiting to wash ashore and swallow me into an ocean of tears because it will become stronger than me one day.  Because I am weak.  Because I lack strength. Because in the face of fear, I instinctively run.

Pain is my friend.  I can count on it.  It’s been there as far back as I can remember. Sure, I’ve experienced good things in life but Pain is always lurking and I can inevitably count on its grand ability to resurface.  Oh, Hi Pain, you’re still here? Of course you are. You always are.

I hate you, Pain.  I hate what you’ve done to me. I hate the insecurities you yield.  I hate the self-doubt that swallows my thoughts.  I hate how you make me feel.  I hate when you ambush my thoughts. I hate when you take me back to the beginning of our journey.  I hate being frozen in those thoughts, frequently feeling the vulnerability, sometimes the shame, often the anger, and always the pain. I fucking hate you.

It’s hard to overcome years of negative thinking about oneself.  It’s sad that no matter how much someone else tells you that you’re pretty, or tries to diminish doubt, or tries to make you feel as if you’re worth something, it doesn’t resonate when you don’t truly believe it yourself.

Even amidst the emotions, there are the "good" times in my life where the daunting memories are neatly filed away.  But I can reflect at times in the past  how those underlying issues affected decisions I've made in my life, whether rational or otherwise.
I’ve always supported counseling, healing wounds, emotional growth.  But when it comes to my own personal shit, I just think, I’ve lived through it. Even in my so called "strength" and weaknesses, I've accomplished things in my life.  So for me, what's the point of it?

But in all reality, I revisit those demons more than I’d care to admit.