92553

I understand the importance of forgiveness, and I feel as though I have completely emersed myself in that feeling for years now, but forgiveness has not healed the void. I know it could be worse, and plenty of people have less than I do, and I am grateful for all the wonderful people in my life, but no one can replace a mother. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I do feel that a part of me will never be satisfied. I accept the situation, I am not angry, I am not pitiful, but I still yearn for that relationship, even if it would have been incredibly delinquent and harmful to myself. You forget what people say, you forget what people did, but you never forget how they made you feel - good and bad. I have a tendency to ignore the bad things, or rather endure them, just to have a small portion of the good. I have very large threshold for pain, both physical and emotional. This also resurrects the question of why I feel I need to punish myself all the time. I am truly guilt-ridden a lot of the time about things that are out of my control. This being one of them. There is no going back, there is no changing what has happened, but I still have a hole in my heart that creates all kinds of anxiety. I do not deal with separation well, I worry about everyone I care about constantly, I always think about when I am going to lose people and how awful that feeling would be. Some days those thoughts are overwhelming and drive me to serious disillusion of the world around me and skews the line of reality to a point of bewilderment for me. Even trying to put this in writing at the moment, my thoughts are scattered and its a rollercoaster on autopilot with no breaks, no end to the ride. I want to cry, I want to get over it, I want someone to show me that it is possible and I am not the only one with this seemingly impossible obstacle to overcome. And there are thoughts of just wanting to completely digress. I want to sit on her lap and have her braid my hair and sing me songs like she used to. When I was still innocent enough to not understand what abuse was and I could see through the eyes of a child adoring their mother. It would be a lie to say she was the best mother anyone could ask for, but she was mine and I will never have that again. Her sheer existence is just that: sheer. It's just an illusion of a person who I wish was the one I remember as a child, who did love me, who's faults were unnoticed, and who's imperfections seemed perfect. Now there is a physical entity, but the synapse between human and "being" is questionable. With mental illness, and physical trauma, and a meaningless life without a purpose, who really knows where her mind is or what she really cares to know or remember or be reminded of. I would give up anything to just have one more kitchen table discussion with her, the big sturdy wooden table with a life time of meaningful nicks and vandalism on its surface, sitting there in her t-shirt, smoking a cigarette, bobbing her crossed leg up and down in those Wigwam socks. To just really know how she feels and why it had to be like this and the chance to feel that connection one last time. Maybe because sometimes I think I could use the insight for myself. To understand how someone could give up entirely when there were reasons to salvage something of your life, even if not for yourself, but for your children. The mystery will remain unsolved for the rest of my life, and I have to find a way to be okay with that. I want to just let it go, dust in the wind, but I allowed my ego to win this battle because I am not equipped to find my peace yet apparently. Maybe in time, I can find a way to know that it is over and to realize that I am not missing anything.