Father's Day
So on Mother's Day my mother told me she planned to divorce my step-father. I cried, unexpectedly to her, and realized that it's rare when you see the whole truth.
Male and female, husband and wife, father and daughter, brother and sister, son and mother--relationships between men and women are bizarre. Could my mother still be floundering from her lack of father-figure? Why does she need someone to take care of her? Why do I?
I see similarities between the two of us, as we vilified those who cannot save us. We realize on different levels, that we can only save ourselves. I'm in this. I am down in the muck, sweating and pushing, groveling and crawling, making my own way. She, the sophisticate sage, reminds me that only I can make myself happy before heading out to see the latest with his better-life promise and slow swagger. The promise falls and fades, like so many empty words; she says she's too old to be alone, but I know she's too afraid.
Can you see me here? Clinging at the edge? Pulling myself slowly up? Fingers, knuckles, knees scraped and bloodied with the effort? I am trying.
I make the same mistakes, repeatedly, even though you've warned me. Please know, I've warned myself.
Could it be that I'm afraid to be a strong, independent woman because I've never seen that. I've never seen anyone do things that are good for themselves. I've never seen anyone happy.
No, because I know strong women. They are both beautiful and happy. It is rare when you see the whole truth.
Maybe it's my overwhelming fear of being happy, because I've never experienced it without oceans of guilt, ebbing and flowing in that little place just above my stomach.
I shouldn't complain. There have been moments when I have been overwhelmed by joy. And maybe those moments should make the rest worth it. All the wading in knee-high muck. Sloshing steadily onward through mud and weeds, moss, mold. The dying.
So I continue, slowly onward, daily. Sometimes I fall, tumbling head over feet, back down to depths where there is no light, but you will have to let me, knowing that I will climb back.
And, bruised and cut, I will haul myself up once again.
Male and female, husband and wife, father and daughter, brother and sister, son and mother--relationships between men and women are bizarre. Could my mother still be floundering from her lack of father-figure? Why does she need someone to take care of her? Why do I?
I see similarities between the two of us, as we vilified those who cannot save us. We realize on different levels, that we can only save ourselves. I'm in this. I am down in the muck, sweating and pushing, groveling and crawling, making my own way. She, the sophisticate sage, reminds me that only I can make myself happy before heading out to see the latest with his better-life promise and slow swagger. The promise falls and fades, like so many empty words; she says she's too old to be alone, but I know she's too afraid.
Can you see me here? Clinging at the edge? Pulling myself slowly up? Fingers, knuckles, knees scraped and bloodied with the effort? I am trying.
I make the same mistakes, repeatedly, even though you've warned me. Please know, I've warned myself.
Could it be that I'm afraid to be a strong, independent woman because I've never seen that. I've never seen anyone do things that are good for themselves. I've never seen anyone happy.
No, because I know strong women. They are both beautiful and happy. It is rare when you see the whole truth.
Maybe it's my overwhelming fear of being happy, because I've never experienced it without oceans of guilt, ebbing and flowing in that little place just above my stomach.
I shouldn't complain. There have been moments when I have been overwhelmed by joy. And maybe those moments should make the rest worth it. All the wading in knee-high muck. Sloshing steadily onward through mud and weeds, moss, mold. The dying.
So I continue, slowly onward, daily. Sometimes I fall, tumbling head over feet, back down to depths where there is no light, but you will have to let me, knowing that I will climb back.
And, bruised and cut, I will haul myself up once again.