The Glow of her Love

I find myself in the process of writing a book (EEEPPPP…breathe, Alynda…it’s okay, Alynda) about being the survivor of childhood sexual abuse and the daughter of a woman deeply affected by mental illness. The process is made more complicated (and immensely easier in other ways) due to my mother’s passing a few years ago. Some of my musings about my mother may not find their way into the book, but, instead, here on my blog.

Here is one such musing.

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It’s easier to write about the bad times versus the good ones because I don’t have to bear that conflicted feeling in the pit of my stomach.

If I demonize my mother then it’s simpler.

Easier.

More cut and dry.

But isn’t that simple

It never really is, is it?

Life isn’t all good or all bad. That’s too easy.

My mom was fun at times.

Crazy and fun and adventurous.

Even at seven, I knew it could end badly, but I still loved those times.

The times when we drove aimlessly for hours just taking turns here and there then trying to find our way back home.

We were happy.

Just the two of us. Blissful and content.

It was great, but it never lasted.

 

Once, living in a border town, we went over the bridge to Canada and got lost in Ontario. I was terrified we’d never find our way back home. We’d run out of gas and never get back.

Mom didn’t worry about those things.

It wasn’t in her nature.

An in the moment type of person,  at least in her manic stages, my mother could be magical.

Her total confidence in my ability to get us back home was intoxicating.

At seven years of age, how should I know which direction to turn?

I pretended to know because that’s what I did.

Pretend until it was true.

I gave her what she needed.

I got us home and I was brilliant for it.

She praised me and I felt the glow of her love.

I loved that feeling.

I loved it when I was seven.

And eight.

And nine.

Until fourteen when I didn’t care anymore…just didn’t care.

 

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

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