This is the last time I will speak about my mother.

This is is the last time I will mention my mom.


My mother left me at 23, 23? You say? Well that’s not bad, that must have been easy. But what you must know was that there was no distinction between my mom and me. I was everything she told me to be. I was her joy, I was pain, I was a sum of her fears and she was me. Sitting in the rubble of my life as she turned away from me, taking the foundation of my entire life with her, I wept. Who was I now?

I was that song “how could you just walk away from me, just walk away and see me cry. You’re the only one who really knew me at all.”

During this horror that became my life, I had to learn to walk and talk again, without her. I began to realize the freedom I had, nobody was telling me who I could see, who I couldn’t. What I could be what I couldn’t. I could do anything. So I did.

But it was not easy. I questioned everything I did. I had to explore everything “do I really not like that or is it time to change my mind?”

As more time passed I realized she wasn’t the glue holding me together.

I could do things. I did whatever I wanted and it was really really different from the things I grew up doing.

Everything fell apart when my mom left? No, things fell into place with painful perfection. She was the radioactive glue holding together the toxic, rotting parts that my body was desperately rejecting.

The religious part of me, the judgemental part of me, the indoctrinated part of me, the parts that thought I couldn’t live without someone else caring for me, helping me, the part that was never really me.

Things that shock you to your core are only setting loose the stagnant, old patterns you continue because you think you have to. Choose different. Choose life.



For more perspective and context on this subject:


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