Mommy Issues Need to be Over

 Catharsis, that’s what I need, a good f’ing enema. Shit my guts out and let the stink fall where it may.

Whatever I put my thoughts or energy into becomes the most important item of my day. Shopping or taking care of the dogs momentarily takes it out of my mind, but sooner or later I get back to it.

How do you multi-task doing wonderful, positive things, while pondering why your mother didn’t love you? So maybe, it’s time to spill my guts and get it out of my system.

Mommy, I remember when I was four I did something that made you very angry. So scared by your wrath I ran around the dining room table to escape, but you cornered me by the china hutch and kicked the sick out of me; until my head throbbed. You instilled fear.

At five I failed a lesson of focus and pay attention. It was the fourth of July, fireworks popped up and down the block. You wanted to be nice to me. The sparkler held firmly in my hand, as you lit the little grey stick, moved ever so slightly, when the folks across the street lit off a firecracker.

The flash of the stick in my hand struck my mother on the thumb. Her shriek scared me witless; I just stood there with my mouth open, holding that stupid sparkler.

The ember died; I stood on the porch and cried, knowing something bad was going to follow. I expected to get hit, but now, I realize your hand hurt too much.  Scared and waiting, I stood in the corner on the porch; until finally, you came out carrying a suitcase.

“You don’t love me. You burned me. I packed your stuff; get out!”

At first I was just happy not to get hit. She closed the door behind her as she went back in the house. The tiny joy of escaping a beating became lost in a sea of despair. I don’t know how long I stood there crying, but cried it out.

A five year old standing on the porch knowing, you’re not welcome, inside feels alone deep in the little soul. I did not know what to do. Terrified, abandoned, I dragged my suitcase down the street to the corner before mommy came to get me.

This isn’t going to be a laundry list of what the woman has done to me.

I feel sorry for you, Evelyn, whatever made you so wicked to me, must have been hell, but you have continued to not love me throughout my life. Why did you hate me?

Loving you, but being forbidden to touch you or hug you, hurt.

When we can’t love, we’re defective somehow. I know you’re capable of love. Without a broken wing I can’t seem to connect with you, and I’m tired of trying.

We bonded over the deaths of our husbands. It was swell; once over the cold war began again. Mom, I don’t like this game; I quit.

At your age, sooner or later God or the devil is going to be reaching out for you, so I’ll just say good luck, thanks for the womb.