Friday, August 26, 2005


Any negativity I've associated with my mum is based soley in my perception and told only from my perspective. Mum would certainly have stories of her own, of how negative I am or of how difficult I am to deal with, and she'd likely have enough material to write her own journal about how unfair I've been to her, or how damaging my influence has been on her life (or am I listening to someone else's words saying things other than I'm fine just the way I am? Oy vey)

As a family, we've pretended the way we interact isn't anything other than normal. As a mother and daughter, we've perpetuated that myth, so I don't know how she feels about the way things are. I suspect she's angry. As ungracious as it is, and as unflattering as it is to admit, I'm angry too, and bitter, and as much as I want to accept my life as it was and move on with who I am now, there's a greater part of me that wants to hang on to what my life could have been, if my family cared enough to fight as hard for my life then, as I do now. Except it's not right, nor is it constructive to lay that amount of responsiblity on someone other than myself. In reality, the quality of my life has never been anyone's responsibilty other than my own, and if I hadn't had to claw my way back, I may never have made it back at all.

Irrespective of all this, what was was, and what is is, but I'm hanging onto what could have been.

She's my mother and I love her, but with the distance between us, both physical and metaphorical, I feel we react to the history we share, rather than listen to the people we are now.

And I've totally forgotten my point.

It might have been something about taking the high road or about accepting her for who she is, or that there is no blame, there only is, or that little lambs eat ivy. Fuck if I know.

Stupid hormones.

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