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Family of Origin
Is there a time we can and should say good-bye to our past?
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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 664492" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>When I separated from my family so many years ago, it was really a big ho-hum for them. While it felt dramatic within me, for my mother and sister, there may have been relief.</p><p></p><p>Then I was an uncomfortable person to be around, for them.</p><p></p><p>I had not yet grown into myself. I had all of the feelings that I still have, without the superstructure to manage or understand them which it has taken a lifespan to construct. Lots of vulnerability, and anger, that nobody really wanted to deal with. I think my mother's and sister's personalities worked together, in a way mine did not.</p><p></p><p>I think I might have been excluded from their dyad. And that suited me, just fine. I think my mother may not have felt comfortable, when she was near me. I think by my limits, the way I was damaged, my softness, maybe. She felt guilt, I think. There was part of her that may not have wanted me near her. She did not like how I saw her, I think.</p><p></p><p>She did not protest, really, when I pulled away. She did not call me. At least, not much. And then, not at all. She went on with her life.</p><p></p><p>I think she regretted how things were, but she accepted their need to be that way.</p><p></p><p>It was so many years ago, all of it. Forty years.</p><p></p><p>When I think of the anguish I feel for a few days out of contact with my son, the near operatic intensity of our interactions ...I am forced to accept that I must have suppressed great pain that my relationship with my mother had died with as if a whimper.</p><p></p><p>SWOT posted a while back that children who had been excluded ran back to take care of their dying mothers to seek the love from them they never had. I was sure this had not been the case, with my own.</p><p></p><p>Increasingly I am able to see the truth is somewhat different.</p><p></p><p>What caught me up was how much I had wanted love from her and to love her. I had not known how much.</p><p></p><p>I knew, dying or not, she did not have it in her to give what I had needed. I knew that going in.</p><p></p><p>I did not know how much I had been damaged and wounded because I had not been loved by my mother in the way I needed. How much it had cost me to not love her, as I needed to and I in fact did, I did not know.</p><p></p><p>Yes, I did go back to take responsibility. Yes, I did not go back to care for her to win her love. Yes, I never believed for one second that I would receive what I needed from her.</p><p></p><p>In the end, these were all lies.</p><p></p><p>The ambush I entered came from myself. Making myself vulnerable to that great need and want. With no way to fulfill it. The lion's share of my grief and grieving was for myself.</p><p></p><p>And I blamed myself for it all.</p><p></p><p>The agony I suffered at my own hand in the last days of my mother's life and after, was as if to blame the victim. I beat myself up because I was not strong enough to withstand my mother. As if she had no responsibility in any of it.</p><p></p><p>The proof of the pudding is in the eating. I seem to use that statement often.</p><p></p><p>What was the "mother love pudding" that I ate in my life? How did it go down, upon eating? That is the test, here, after all.</p><p></p><p>It was toxic to me. I could not survive, her, ultimately. I was not equipped with a way to defend myself from her. To maintain self-esteem or self-respect, while close to her was not possible. My mother if I was close to her, ultimately, cost me both.</p><p></p><p>I could not survive my mother.</p><p></p><p>I loved her. This is true. I enjoyed her company, often. I admired her for some things. Being close to her, I could not survive.</p><p>So in bed I have been eating the pudding made of the dust of haunted desire, of things that never were...longed for...never to be had again. That could never ever have been with the mother I had.</p><p></p><p>And blamed myself for it. I assumed every bit of responsibility for what I had lacked and wanted. For choosing to protect myself from her.</p><p></p><p>It is not the most important thing that I never knew how much I loved her. What is important is this:</p><p></p><p>I never knew how much I needed her. How much I needed the love of a real mother. How much I needed to love her in the way I never could. Because she would hurt me if I did. And I never knew how much that really cost me. Until now.</p><p></p><p>And I know now that it was not my fault. None of it. I could not show her love because of what she would have done to me. And did do, when she had the chance.</p><p></p><p>I was the child who had needed a mother with whom I was safe. I was the young woman who lived a life alone because I had no real family that could love me, with whom I was safe. I was the old woman who had to eat the bitter dust that her life was constructed around a great hollow void.</p><p></p><p>The biggest and deepest heart did not receive the love that she needed with all of her deepest desire and yearning. That for her whole life, she had lived bereft.</p><p></p><p>And no matter how hard that is to swallow right now. There is a great relief and peace to this dry and tasteless and bitter pudding. The pain and sorrow and emptiness are not my fault.</p><p></p><p>That great and hollow void in my heart I can fill.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 664492, member: 18958"] When I separated from my family so many years ago, it was really a big ho-hum for them. While it felt dramatic within me, for my mother and sister, there may have been relief. Then I was an uncomfortable person to be around, for them. I had not yet grown into myself. I had all of the feelings that I still have, without the superstructure to manage or understand them which it has taken a lifespan to construct. Lots of vulnerability, and anger, that nobody really wanted to deal with. I think my mother's and sister's personalities worked together, in a way mine did not. I think I might have been excluded from their dyad. And that suited me, just fine. I think my mother may not have felt comfortable, when she was near me. I think by my limits, the way I was damaged, my softness, maybe. She felt guilt, I think. There was part of her that may not have wanted me near her. She did not like how I saw her, I think. She did not protest, really, when I pulled away. She did not call me. At least, not much. And then, not at all. She went on with her life. I think she regretted how things were, but she accepted their need to be that way. It was so many years ago, all of it. Forty years. When I think of the anguish I feel for a few days out of contact with my son, the near operatic intensity of our interactions ...I am forced to accept that I must have suppressed great pain that my relationship with my mother had died with as if a whimper. SWOT posted a while back that children who had been excluded ran back to take care of their dying mothers to seek the love from them they never had. I was sure this had not been the case, with my own. Increasingly I am able to see the truth is somewhat different. What caught me up was how much I had wanted love from her and to love her. I had not known how much. I knew, dying or not, she did not have it in her to give what I had needed. I knew that going in. I did not know how much I had been damaged and wounded because I had not been loved by my mother in the way I needed. How much it had cost me to not love her, as I needed to and I in fact did, I did not know. Yes, I did go back to take responsibility. Yes, I did not go back to care for her to win her love. Yes, I never believed for one second that I would receive what I needed from her. In the end, these were all lies. The ambush I entered came from myself. Making myself vulnerable to that great need and want. With no way to fulfill it. The lion's share of my grief and grieving was for myself. And I blamed myself for it all. The agony I suffered at my own hand in the last days of my mother's life and after, was as if to blame the victim. I beat myself up because I was not strong enough to withstand my mother. As if she had no responsibility in any of it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. I seem to use that statement often. What was the "mother love pudding" that I ate in my life? How did it go down, upon eating? That is the test, here, after all. It was toxic to me. I could not survive, her, ultimately. I was not equipped with a way to defend myself from her. To maintain self-esteem or self-respect, while close to her was not possible. My mother if I was close to her, ultimately, cost me both. I could not survive my mother. I loved her. This is true. I enjoyed her company, often. I admired her for some things. Being close to her, I could not survive. So in bed I have been eating the pudding made of the dust of haunted desire, of things that never were...longed for...never to be had again. That could never ever have been with the mother I had. And blamed myself for it. I assumed every bit of responsibility for what I had lacked and wanted. For choosing to protect myself from her. It is not the most important thing that I never knew how much I loved her. What is important is this: I never knew how much I needed her. How much I needed the love of a real mother. How much I needed to love her in the way I never could. Because she would hurt me if I did. And I never knew how much that really cost me. Until now. And I know now that it was not my fault. None of it. I could not show her love because of what she would have done to me. And did do, when she had the chance. I was the child who had needed a mother with whom I was safe. I was the young woman who lived a life alone because I had no real family that could love me, with whom I was safe. I was the old woman who had to eat the bitter dust that her life was constructed around a great hollow void. The biggest and deepest heart did not receive the love that she needed with all of her deepest desire and yearning. That for her whole life, she had lived bereft. And no matter how hard that is to swallow right now. There is a great relief and peace to this dry and tasteless and bitter pudding. The pain and sorrow and emptiness are not my fault. That great and hollow void in my heart I can fill. [/QUOTE]
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Is there a time we can and should say good-bye to our past?
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