Unbeloved

I keep thinking that my maternal Granny prayed so much for the soul of her eldest son, who may well have been a suicide by drowning. For an Irish Catholic, that was a mortal sin, and she surely wanted her son in Purgatory, not Hell. I think if there is a Hell, then it was her and her husband who will be there, not the desperate boy.

Oh, how our fantasies torment us.

My mother had elaborate fantasies about how much her brother loved her, how my elder brothers loved me, how her husband loved her, that flatly contradicted their actions and reality. She never remembered anything that didn't agree with her stories of an ideal and loving family. And I can't forget the harm. To lay your life in the relationships between people who are not you is to invite failure.

I will always take a hard truth over a soft lie. My mother was the opposite. I was not beloved, the reality of me could not exist in her mind. Knowing this is freedom for me. Nothing she did or said or felt had anything to do with me. Not my problem. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

She cried just as much as I do. Or, I cry as much as she did. She never seemed to learn from her pain. I try to, every day. I will hurt no child I brought into the world, then ask them to be grateful to me.

Mrs. Rizzardi, Aunt Alma, Aunt Evelyn, all haunt me, and always will. My house is kind and welcoming. The cats seem to feel it. I walked around it in darkness from the first week, without qualm. The soul of this house knows we love her. There is peace here. It is enough for me.





I love that Zeppo is using Moby's scratching triangle, and the mat on the side of the tree that neither cat ever used. He loves it. Good.

Feeling a lot of the anger about my mother today. So much anger.