I am committed to expressing the Truth of my experience here and for the last few days, I have been wrecked. So I am going to share it because this is a key aspect of my own personal healing and a stepping stone along the path of Self Realization.
I spend my days in peace and solitude. I have a beautiful business with a remarkably loving staff and a loyal and generous clientele. I do not have a lot about which I complain because I’m a trusting soul who has chosen to surrender her attachment to the material. My reward is peace and inspiration. This does not mean, though, that I don’t encounter a mass welling of bullshit from my own depths. I’m not going to make this a long entry, but this is the beginning of something big and is the first in many posts to come. I invite you to join me on this journey.
I am not the only person who despairs at the hands of their mother. It is an age old conflict that is resolved and re-aroused, resolved and re-aroused. It is at my mother’s hands that I feel weakest. And what hands they are: big, brown, strong hands that used to sting like the dickens when they smacked my face. Big, brown baseball mitts with perfectly manicured nails are my mom’s hands. But the hands are not the problem. The slapping is not the problem. (Although, I do wonder what person in their right mind slaps the shit out of a child. I know there are lots of people who vehemently suggest that I don’t know what it’s like to be a single parent and to raise a child in the big city. No. I don’t know. But I do know that anytime you slap the shit out of somebody smaller than you, you’re a fucking bully– I don’t care how hard your job is or how shitty your boyfriend made you feel. Slap a child, kick the puppy, turn your head while you see it happening at your neighbor’s house. Justify it in your mind and heart and feel free to voice your opinion because I sure as hell am voicing mine. And there are those who will say, well, your mother made you into the person you are today. And I say, yes. I am grateful for who I am today. I love myself dearly which is why I am speaking up for my inner child who could not express herself when she was was being made to feel like she was a burden who does not deserve to occupy space.) But the slapping is not the real problem today. The real problem is how the slap was processed and did not reverberate through my body, but rather stuck in my body. The slapping and the mean statements are meant to pass through the body and be released to the angels for transmuting. But what I did and what countless other people do (and what a child right now is doing) is take all that anger from my parent and store it in my body. You see, I got slapped, was told I was stupid and then my guts and my body got really, really hard and held it all in. I was told that if I cry, I would be given something about which I would REALLY want to cry. And I avoided that shit like the plague. So instead, I kept the energy inside.
And then sometimes Mama would be on to the next thing– her anger released and her big beatific smile lighting her perfect face and all would be well and funny and warm and how was your day? And other times, she would remain in a state of pissed-off for days. Standing at the stove, tending dinner, getting dressed for work, sitting on the sofa watching television, a look of utter peevishness and dissatisfaction on her face. And I would stay clenched for those days. Jaw clenched and tongue thrust forward expressing the scream lodged in my throat.
I clenched my teeth to brace for the blow. I clenched my neck and shoulders to keep myself upright. My tummy clenched. My butt clenched. My twat clenched. My breath held. And I would clench my heart to hold back my anger because if I released it, I would beat the shit out of her and I would tear up the whole house and I would kill her and my beloved birds and destroy my beloved Snoopy and Raggedy Ann. I held back my anger and my sadness and I would not speak of the sadness and despair to anyone because I was ashamed of my existence. And so I clenched my being and my story and my desires and my perspective. I had no voice– not for how I felt.
Even as I sit and write, my tongue is thrust forward, misaligning my teeth and I can feel the pain of the girl holding back the scream that wants to be screamed.
And my mother is not the issue. Not anymore.
This pain I suffer is from my own cowardly demeanor which creates an illusion of composure and calm when really I feel appalled and bored by the meaningless drivel that snakes its way into our conversations in the guise of psychology, but is in fact petty gossip.
Who am I? Why am I afraid to express my True Self? My voice is choked with anger and frustration and if I could just express feelings to her, then I could free myself from this prison I’ve created.
When did I become so damned chicken shit? Where is my voice?