And Then I Was Done

Mothering Addiction

And You’re so Angry With Me

Why? You could have asked me any question, at any time. You didn’t. Instead, you used the time to attack, to bruise, to hit. You didn’t seem to care that you were doing as awful damage as anyone to anyone.

 I am 60, you are 40. Why can’t we have a life? Why are you always screaming about trauma? You didn’t unfriend me, you blocked me.

What?

Why?

I am over here alone screaming that I have tried and tried every single step of the way. You are over there screaming that I have failed and failed every single step of the way.

You enlarged every single thing that was wrong, you enlarged it to the size of the Titanic. What was good died, it drowned, quickly in the rush of the trauma. And always you were screaming “your fault, your fault”.

Why.

I never.

I did not.

I did not understand.

I was lost.

I was lost on the tundra. Screaming.

Was it me? I kept thinking “Catch up, you’ve got two kids for Christ’ sake”, or maybe I was thinking “Is it really this big of a deal?” I minimized your pain.

But no, something happened late, you won’t tell me what it was, you won’t ask me about it. I don’t know what it was. I was clumsy. I was clumsy, and didn’t understand something that was important to you.

You’ll attack me angrily. You’ll scream, I’ll scream back. This is all that we have accomplished in the last six or seven years.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I need you. I love you. I wish you were here.

I am scared. I am sick. I wish my youngest daughter was near.