Memory Haunts...

Memories of my Mother often haunt me. They haunted me even before she died.

I always knew there were things about my mother that I couldn't fix, no matter how hard I tried. Before she admitted to the horrors of her childhood, I knew something wasn't right. When she finally told me, it put a name on all of it. I always wanted to make things better for her, but that's a hard thing for a kid to do for a parent. Those unmet childhood needs a parent might have are rarely satisfied by their own children. Chidren can't parent their parents.

Yesterday, I noticed my skin was very dry. That used to happen to my mother, too. So, this morning, I opened the jar of heavy-duty jasmine and orange scented moisturizer, the only thing that relieves the dry skin, and thoughts of my mother came flooding back--of how Neutrogena body oil was the only thing that worked for her and how I gave her a bottle one year for Christmas, because I knew she needed it, and how she loved it.

It was a simple thing, but it was like gold to her. My father, always fearing poverty and ever stingy on day to day things, often denied my mother sufficient money to buy little luxuries like body oii.

For a moment, this morning, all those memories of my mother flooded back--how she was so hurt all the time, how little things made her happy, how she saved boxes and was one of the most meticulous pack rats I'd ever known...

The feelings in my heart, that crippling sadness and sense of futility, always floods in....as I said, there was never anything I could do to make everything in her life better no matter how hard I tried. I was never smart enough, never good enough, never enough.

Years of child abuse makes a person's heart, and psyche, something of a bottomless pit. No mater what's given, it is never enough.

And foolish me--always wanting to be compassionate and fix things.

I also remember though, that the real gift my mother wanted was for me to never leave. Never grow up. Never have a life beyond her house and her watchful eye.

She watched out of fear, not out of love. It was the fear of losing something she never could realize would always be there, no matter where I went.

But love was never really enough. I don't think she ever really knew what could be enough. So she found ways to cripple, and to haunt me.

She didn't mean to hurt me. She just didn't how what else to do.

If I wasn't there, physically, I was betraying her. I was evil for going out, like a young person should, and having a good time. I was evil for having friends other than her. I was always evil....

Because I couldn't fix her sorrow and pain--and I chose to have my own life.

Now, she haunts me at the oddest times-- because we all carry links to our parents. Our skin, hair, body type, facial features are markers of our parents. When my skin is dry, I am reminded of my mother's skin being dry, and then I am reminded of her life.

And what I could never fix for her.

I think of why I never had children--how I could not risk the emotional attachment to another person whose hurts I could probably never fix. And because I am imperfect, might even cause.

All that hurt had to stop somewhere. So it stopped with me.

It's all just ghosts now. And I'm fine dealing with them. They hit, like this morning, but then they go. I'll put on some makeup, a stylish outfit, and be fine.

Until the next small, haunting memory.