Mothering and Life in General
I fight for the child who once had a mother. A child with fond memories of what a family was supposed to be like, how a mother was supposed to love and how the family fit their world around hers.
I fight for the being who seen it fall apart, and was left no other option to either fix it or blame herself. Where innocent eyes saw anger and her ears heard crashing of breaking glass. Where her beloved parents ripped each other and tore every resemblance of the people they once were.
I fight for the school-aged child who knew what depression looked like, but it had no name. Who hated Mom always sleeping, but thought it was because Mom did not love her, and there was something wrong about her. A child becoming an adult overnight and raising a sibling 4 years her youth.
I fight for the preteen, who resented not having a normal life, with normal friends, with a normal home, with normal parents, and with normal sibling rivalry. Just once she wished the weight of the world was not on her. Just once she wished she was not parenting her parent.
I fight for the teen who felt awkward with new men in the picture, that had other fantasies other than her mother. The mother who would not hear of it and the sister who said she was out to cause problems. Guess Mom just did not deserve to be happy…
I fight for the anger of the person who gave her mother a glass of cold water and told her not to choke on the pills she endlessly threatened to take. The months spent not eating in her own home because her mother threatened to kill her too. The helplessness, when the courts would not allow her to take her younger sister with her when she left.
I fight for the young adult, who tries to settle down, but can’t without the failure of her own family jabbing in her brain. How can you tell a story of your past without seeming ungrateful or ashamed of where she came from? That just because that was her past does not make her equal to it.
I fight for the adult who had been chosen over, yet again, another man, who had to return home from a hospital visit with their mother’s battered face burnt in her thoughts. With shielding anger of defense over her loved ones, who really never deserved the time of day.
I fight for a woman in her middle years, who has a child of her own, who is now asking where Nan is. “How come Nan does not come to play with me?” repeats over and over, while all the energy is used to keep from wanting to go over to ‘Nan’ and slap her in the face.
I fight for the boundaries for this new offspring to be safe while knowing who her blood relatives are. For this offspring to not know the dreadful details of why she can’t and will not be going to Nan’s house, and the real reason why Nan does not come very often.
I fight for the person who was not good enough at any age, throughout her life and now, neither is her offspring. To have those first 4 years back. To have a mother who was there, and not put a man before her own children. To never get the call that her mom was moving away to start a new and better family.
I fight the memories of stepping up to the plate when there was no one else who was going to. The fight to not belittle every mindless choice that was made. To not have her offspring have any taste of the real truths and ask for forgiveness when she beats around the bush and cleans-up the real picture.
My mother asks me why I have become a judgmental bitch, and bring up the past that she could not do anything about now. How she made mistakes and she learned by them (although she routinely does the same things over and over again). How I was raised as a Christian, but grew up unlike one.
Well mother, I fight for my growing child, and I also fight for the child I once was. Because when I was a child, there was no one there to fight for me. I fight and I will continue to do so. I fight to not become you, I fight to not have the life I had, for my own daughter, and I fight, because that is what I have been doing all these years.
I will fight.