My Mother (a poem I wrote about parental caused trauma)

#emmasgift
I wrote this poem some time ago. My intuition said that it was time. But I never worked up the courage to send it to my mother. I need to send it now and wanted to share it with others. I hope that it will speak to you if you have deep pain around your mother or mother-figure.

My Mother

My mother is not like most mothers.
I wish I could say that she loved me.
I know that she would say she does.
But I know better.
She can't love herself so how can she love me?
Her love is tied up in excuses to dull her own pain.

The only love there is a desperate and futile attempt
At filling the empty void that is her heart.
For she was hurting so badly
She had to run, and run, and run.
And she brought me with her,
With her along on this dark journey,
In hopes that starting over-
And doing it this way and doing it that way
Would hide the raw wounds left open
By those that were supposed to love her.

But it didn't work
So she pushed harder,
Losing control more than ever.
Now she had to find more ways
to cover the emotions that threatened to explode.
Sometimes they did
but not in the way that you think.
They erupted in her body because
her very organs could take the strain
of the dark fire that was consuming them.

She tried to keep it together by
building the perfect family.
But I was ashamed to my very core
of everything we did,
ashamed to be seen, ashamed to be heard.
We were so weird,
A different kind of human,
One that refuses to be human.

I have no heart either,
Thanks to my mom.
She taught me well
but not in the way she intended.
I watched as she buried her feelings
even pretended they weren't what they were,
and I did the same.

I learned to cope,
The way she had learned to cope.
I built these walls around my heart
Walls of brick and stone,
So no one could get in and hurt me again.
Now it's time to break them down,
Time to be raw and vulnerable.

See my mother was teaching me
Just not in the way she had hoped.
I was watching and copying as only a child can do.
My thousand-year-old soul was tormented.
It wanted to grow and be and do;
But it wasn't allowed...

It wasn't allowed to be pretty,
To dance, and hear the music.
To love and to hurt, to experience and learn.
Because that was 'bad'.
Please, someone, tell me-
Where is the sense in that?

My soul couldn't express itself.
Instead, it was pushed and shoved into a tiny box.
So I collected ribbons and paper,
the last beautiful things in my life,
in a desperate attempt to be eccentric.

I dreamed of one day being perfect,
In every sense of the word,
(Not knowing that I was already perfect),
Beautiful, wealthy, powerful-
Then no one could hurt me
Or tell me how to be.
Only now I know that that wouldn't work.

I tried to please her
because she's my moma
(that's what we want to do)
but it made me do things I regret to this day.
This is what happens when you refuse
To be honest with your own heart,
You find excuses and schimas to cope.
You shape-shift and trick to get what you need.
You lie and you cheat to receive what your soul craves.

I need to, I must, let go of this pain
Because I want to rise,
My soul wants to fly.
Now I CAN have all that I want
There is nothing holding me back.
There is nothing I can't do.
And I need my heart to do so.

I give all this pain to the Mother of mothers, Sophia
That She can take these hurts and make them beautiful
She can hold me and give me the feelings
That a little girl craved and never received.
Because it's ok to want a moma,
It's ok to be hurting and want someone to hold you.

But I forgive her, my moma,
'cause she was doing the best she knew how.

I hope you can be healed through this,
Emma

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