Mommy and Me

Well kids, I'm back among the living once again. Mama came, and then she went. That's the nice thing about visits, they come to an end. And yet it's sad, because here's the real deal, kids: I really love my mother. I love her so much! And we are quite alike, she and I. We both love good books, cozy little animals, good art, and safety. (Altho her definition of good art and my definition of good art are a wee bit different.) I enjoy talking to my mother and even enjoy hearing what she has to say (at least some of the time). But, aye, here's the rub: she has also hurt me, down to the very depths of my being, where I cannot even begin to fathom. And to hold that love, and yet that hate of her all in the same place, at the same time, is hard to do. It's espescially hard, considering Good Christian Girls aren't supposed to feel hatred in the first place, much less for their mothers! (And I hope I haven't offended anyone's sensibilities.) I want so badly to think and feel just one thing, to pick one, and go with it! I could hate her, oh so easily! I could say, "F- you," only say it aloud, instead of saying it silently in angry thoughts and gestures, as when I 'eat at' my mother (as tho eating a cookie can really communicate my anger to her). Or, I could take what seems now the easiest way of all, the way I'm used to, the way where I run towards her, and after her, and every which way, always yearning for her approval. Because msot days, I would do anything for it.
For some reason, on her visit, my mother decided to bring up When I Was Depressed In Seventh Grade. I'm not quite sure why this was so necessary, but apparently it was, and so we discussed that horrible time, opening many, Many cans of worms. I even revealed to her, for the first time, that even then, I wanted very much to die. She had thought I was only suicidal when I was older. And, of course, I cried, and, of course, she tried to comfort me, but as she and I sat there, her arms around my shoulders as I sat on the floor, sobbing, I realized that my dearest fantasy could never come true. For some years now, I have fantasized about crawling up into my mother's lap and just sobbing, completely accepted and completely loved. Well, that will never happen. Because, as much as part of me wants to fuse back into my mother, and simply become a little part of her, I can't do it. I'm not her, I'm me. And to 'fuse' with her means giving up myself, means acting like she never hurt me, and I Can't Do That. I just can't.
So instead, I'll try very hard to see and accept my mother just as she is, very flawed, but beautiful.
(P.S. No, I just could not bring myself to use 'fuck' in a sentence about my mother. It just seems so Wrong. So we'll go with 'f-you' instead. ;-))
(P.P.S. I know this is a lot of psychobabble crap. But bear with me. I needed to write this out for my own sake.)