I struggle with acceptance.
When my mother left, I remember wondering when things would feel normal again. It felt like her departure created a hole. A hole that things slid into. A thing I had to avoid to prevent from sliding into it myself. I thought someone would be my advocate. No one was my advocate. My father tried, but he didn’t understand his girl child. He didn’t know what to do with all the raw emotion. I was born an artist. I was born hyper- sensitive. I was born raw. He was a busy man. He traveled most weeks and had two other children. He was overwhelmed.
Motherless childen are not monitored. Perhaps not corrected for their lack of manners, their hair not being properly combed, they are not cuddled enough. I became angry. I waited for life to be worth living. I see now I never accepted that my family was in pieces and those pieces would never be whole again. I waited for life to be like the happy families on TV. I felt cheated.
I see that with the losses I have had, and continue to have, I do not let go. I wait for a resolution. I wait for things to return to normal. I do not grieve. I do not know how. When I am sad, I stop it. I don’t allow myself to feel it for long, because that means acceptance.
It means accepting my mother didn’t love me.
When my stepmother told me, “I see why your mother left you you’re such a brat,” I didn’t believe my mother left because of my behavior, but I still heard the words. They stayed. Embedded in me. They’re here. And her words revealed her feelings about herself.
I managed to find a man who would force me to contemplate all of this again. Force me to see his harsh words as a reflection of the pain he feels about himself. That he can not love me as I need to be loved. And that is not a reflection about my ability to be loved. I am lovable. He had to be my teacher. To teach me to understand that acceptance is freedom. No one else could do it. My soul mate had to burn me down, so I can rise up anew and be the phoenix I am.
But at the moment, the fire is still burning.