bushwacked

bushwacked

My best friend Marion knows me like no one else does. She can even see my face, read my expressions, dry my tears when my head is full-on buried in the sand. She's good like that. We are always talking books, books, more books. I'll hear an author on NPR and call her about it. She'll give me a bag of books when I visit - having faith I'll find the time to read. When I get in a great book, I steal time everywhere. Stop lights. Nap time. Book in lap under the table while everyone eats. I'm at my thieving best when engrossed.

A while ago she called and said, "You must go buy this book today. It can NOT wait. It's a mother-daughter tale that will give you hope." Then she called and asked if I'd gotten it yet three days in a row! I went to Barnes and Noble on day three because I need that hope.

***

My relationship with my mother is, um, ridiculously complicated. My childhood could fill 10 volumes but I can't/haven't/won't find the voice to write the stories. I struggle daily with trying to conduct a mother-daughter relationship while standing on a still smoking battlefield. She continues to litter the landscape with incendiary devices. With regularity I wander into long forgotten minefields. I'm getting an eye twitch just writing this ...

I was hoping to gain some insight with this Marion-must-read. Maybe the author found a way to deal with borderline personalities in a wonderful and creative way. Maybe the troublesome mother had an epiphany and she started, even at a late date, being a mother. Maybe the troubled daughter discovered a new brainwashing technique and found sleep at long last.

I made many suppositions from Marion telling me hope could be wrought from the pages of a book. I assumed it was written by a daughter. I assumed we shared problematic parenting. I assumed there was action to be had; closure to be found; resolution to finally patch the holes of the soul.

Come Back was so much more.

***

I gave the book to Bear and said, "This is me. I am the damaged girl. I am angry and wounded beyond the damage done to bones and organs. I am also the mother. Possessing knowledge of evil and powerless over it. Some days I fear every second I am awake. This book will help you understand the bad days."

He read it and it helps.

***

I started EMDR again. If I refuse to parent with fear at the wheel, I have to open the trunk where I stuff bad things. I have to take them out and examine and banish. I know why I have a hard pit in my stomach, I'm just afraid of it. I know the power is gone but like a spent nuclear blast, it still makes me sick. Makes my hair fall out. Makes me fear the light ... especially that crack of light in the deep of the night that invades the peaceful sleep of childhood.

***

I will stand and face my fears. I will leave things behind that I've carried for far too long. I will keep no secrets and I will allow the joy of motherhood to be mine.

Claire, thanks for stopping by. This has been stuck in my throat for a while now. I struggle with giving horror a name, a face, a story. Your bravery and honesty is an inspiration. Thank you.