Dear Mother...

Dear My Ancient Mother,
that woman called today. The one who I have the same eye colour as. The one who abandoned me and hurt me over and over. Some how she feels that carrying me in her womb, making sure I didn't die, some how she has the right to call me daughter. The right. All those years I would flee from her into your safe green arms only to have to leave you and to live in that house.
That hole where the love, support and kindness should be in a person was never there for me. She taught me many things. Things that with your strength and wisdom I have healed so much of. It wasn't so much that she chose her other biological offspring, though she can still do no wrong. It was that everyone, anyone was more important, more deserving, more worthy than I. Every crime, real or imagined was my doing.
When other's hurt me, under her guard, it was me that was to blame. Her lover. Her step-son. Both abused me. Both hurt and violated that sacred trust a child bestows on a person. Yet it was me they cast as outcast. Evil. Shameful, tiny hurting little child who just wanted to be loved. Who after she was truthful, and honest and brave was told she was anything but and who wanted to die. At 8 years old because the pain and shame of living in this hell were too much. This was not treated as a "cry for help" but ridiculed and used as evidence of how awful I was.
I lived in house constantly full of people, alone. I cooked my own meals, avoided everyone and gave my affection to the animals without lies on their tongues and cruelty in their eyes. I learned to be an adult very young, yet that sting of not being wanted, welcome, worthy sticks in my memory like the wet, bare leg slaps at the pool on holiday.
People sometimes marvel at my strength and pain tolerance, it is just scar tissue is harder, tougher. I have walked through hell and everything else, life, is just a blessing.
I just find a balance, a peace, a place of pity, not rage, a place of forgiveness for an abused child, who grew up to abuse, when she does something else. As though this forgiveness is permission to carve into my healing heart over and over and over again. When the person I once called sister (before I knew it had another meaning) put me in hospital this year and she was screaming down the phone at me for "making your sister feel bad" I knew something had to change.
I collected bones, all shapes and sizes. Listened to you love, and kindness and support. Carved her names onto them and scattered them in the midsummer sun, in hedge rows and ditches, crossroads and country lanes. I scattered her, grieved and to me I was at peace.
Yet now and again she would call. I would just hang up. Just refuse to acknowledge she was there.
Yet watching TK speak to her, even briefly like a person (a right I was not blessed with) set fire to something in me.
A rage and pain that until I laid my head against your heart I could not let go of. I wore it close to me, I slept in it, I eat in it. I could bare the touch of no-one, except my daughter, my gift from you and TK.
Mother I know you will protect me from this woman. That you will heal me, like you always do. I know that because ever time this person fails to be a woman, a friend or "mam" you, always you pick me up. You send me gifts. Wipe away my tears. Warm and soothe me. I am always good enough, worthy enough, for you.
Thank you my Mother, my Goddess.

Your ever loving daughter.

xxx