Motherless mother

I have been in “hiding.” That’s because I don’t want anyone to know the real me these days more than ever. Yet if I keep on trying to go on that path, I fear that my soul will turn so bitter that if it were an edible thing, I myself would spit it out and walk away forever. Big life changes, which are all good and are gifts (in the complete, pure sense of the word) from God, fill the past few years. Stresses sky-rocketed while we were in Korea last year--close to my family, to the few left, unerased memories and impact of my childhood. I tried to move on but I keep getting hit on the head and stabbed in my heart somewhere along the way. It’s like every time I get back up with a bleeding heart, I get stabbed deeper, bleeding even more. I have slowly been getting stripped and bare, raw inside. Patch work is not doing the job anymore. I don’t know where to go from here. (To God...yes, I know and yes, I do.) I am like a stick about to break, or maybe I am already broken and my splinters are hurting or scarying away anyone who would dare come near.

I feel so sad. I feel angry. I even feel nothing sometimes, or so I say. (Is that an oxymoron—to feel nothing?) I feel overwhelmed. I shut down. But it still hurts somehow.

Before I had my children, I thought that the mothering comes naturally. I thought that all this mother’s love would just naturally ooze out of me. I don’t mean a shallow kind of love—I mean the kind of strong love that teaches what is true and good, coushions the falls, and is simply there when things get rough or go wrong. Even though I never experienced that from a mother, I still had the God-given notions and longings deep in my heart and no one, not one evil circumstance, person, or thing has plucked those longings from my heart. Yes, God must have been there. He must have loved me in the midst of the sins, abuse, neglect, choas, confusion, and pain. But I was not born an adult...I was born a baby, a child who was dependent on its mother (and father, which is a whole other story of its own) to take care of and teach. It never really hit me, until after I gave birth, that I myself would try to kick these longings out in the end with the look on my face of long and hard disappointment, of rage.

Arielle did not have any protests at bedtime tonight. Ti was so tired that he fell asleep nursing. I came out of the bedroom (of our yet another friends’ house where we were graciously given permission to stay while they’re away) totally spent...the longest afternoon. I felt awful because I was mean to Ari all afternoon... being harsh, yelling, grabbing, getting frustrated and angry with her (sounds like a neglected child’s behavior now that I list them here), abusive with words, tones, and looks... ugly and down right wrong. I feel like and I know I am a bad mom (just let me say it once) and I can’t help being mean...but sometimes she is just too much and I am at the end of my rope, constantly. I know its all my bad modeling and my fault. (Just hear me.)

When I was nursing Ti in the dark I was looking on at Ari laying down quietly in her bed. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or awake but it didn’t matter. All the yelling, screaming, and crying had finally ended. Silence,...only my heart was still screaming. I felt this sudden anger, more like rage and disappointment and I was telling myself, ‘I never knew (and I probably will never know) my mother’s love.’ And I wallowed in my own self pity mixed with anger at God who allowed this lot. I was weeping, silently. I never knew a mom who would show me day in and day out what it means to be patient, kind, physically and emotionally available and affectionate, strong, safe, and dependable...who would show me, even in her own tainted ways, her unwavering love and belief in me when no one else, not even myself, would believe in me—affirming who I am. I never had that constant voice of my mother. And it hurts to be alone...confused, terrified. With no guidance, no hand to hold, no one, no relationship. I feel lost in this vast, cold, scary world.

My husband listens to all of this and tells me that he will never leave me. And what is sadder is that instead of taking comfort in his promise, I don’t think I would even care if he left, because I have this deep seated notion, not just notion but belief, that I probably deserved it—that there is everything wrong with me, and that’s how I would have to explain.

Divorce hurts children. It shreds the hearts, and everything about them into pieces. But actually, it’s not the divorce. It’s the root of all sin. The relentless pursuit of selfish desires divorced from its Creator—rebellion, idolatry. Generations suffer the consequences and the pain of sin committed carelessly today by one person. Sin becomes the way of life, the norm. It’s sad when someone doesn’t know any better. Sometimes that’s me.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

(John Donne 1572-1631)