The soul of a mother is her mind, her will, and her emotions. The soul of a family is the familiarity they share in those areas with their mother.
I once had a family. I dreamed of them long before they existed, and I planned for their lives to be all cookies and milk.
Now they have come and they have gone. Their lives included as much cookies and milk as it was possible for me to provide. Then they were stolen willingly. Gone as though they never were mine at all. But I am still here… alone.
I look back over my life and wonder what it would be like IF… But I know it would be no different because all of the “ifs” are impossible–since I was true to myself already and could not have possibly exercised any of the “ifs” I can think of now.
Entitlement is a powerful word. It means to have a right to something, and that makes sense and seems correct; however, entitlement can be twisted through a belief that one is inherently deserving of a privilege to just take that which belongs to another. My mother, my ex-husband, my sister, and my friend all feel entitled to take up threads of my life and start pulling the strings as if they were their own.
My life has been invaded by entitlement believers. I can’t help but notice that each of these people have money. Each of these people uses their money to win the hearts and lives of others through gifts and entreats. They have to know that they are stealing love and relationships that belong to another.
I remember the first time I ever saw someone unrelated to me do this to another. She actually stole a dying woman’s daughter and grandchild–while making noises of how sorry she was that they woman was dying. I watched her do the whole thing, and I was powerless to do anything and dumbfounded as well.
I can’t help but notice that each of these people have money. Each of these people uses their money to win the hearts and lives of others through gifts and entreats. Their demonstrated abilities to appropriate anything and anyone they want have been devastating to me with a deepening, penetrating, fiercely painful force that has reamed out my insides and laid siege to my heart.
They have stolen things and moments and love that I can never get back. They have left me bleeding and dying in the emptiness of my own soul. And I do nothing about it. I just accept it as–that is how it is.
Sometimes, like this morning, it comes to a head, and the reality of it begins reaming out my insides again. My heart hurts beyond medical ability, spiritual ability, or any other ability to sooth its oozing pain. I was on FaceBook, and I saw all of the family photos from Thanksgiving.
I saw the family I gave birth to and raised, giving love, companionship, making memories, sharing, enjoying, and joyful in the house of the man they call, “father,” who made their childhood anything but cookies and milk.
With the flash of each photo’s invasion into my heart and my mind, I felt more sickened and more defeated and more rejected than I ever thought possible. Given the ravages of time that has passed since my three daughters began this horrible tradition of including their husbands and families with their father–leaving me out–in much the same way they would do if I had died–which I have wished and wanted for myself, but it never comes.
Given the ravages of time that have passed since my three daughters began this horrible tradition of including their husbands and families with their father on Thanksgiving–leaving me out–in much the same way they would do if I had died–I have wished and wanted to die, but it never comes.
My self-sacrifice and my determination to protect them from the effects of domestic violence have culminated in a tragedy, whereby the horror of violent abnormality continues as though it were normal.
I am guilty. I pretended like it was not happening, and afterward, I pretended like it didn’t happen. So they have followed my pretense, and because I was treated as less than human by their father–they now see that as normal too. My grandchildren and great grandchildren are all oblivious to the unreality of this family, this horrible Thanksgiving ruse.
Now they have generational photos with a man they call, “father,” who tore our home and family to pieces with violence that cannot adequately be described. A man who abused them and inexplicably beat and broke their mother–body and soul–almost to death–while destroying furniture, treasured things, and even Christmas trees along the way. A father who could only be contained by calling the police. A father who hated the four of us with a hate that inspired him to start a fire in our garage while we all slept. A father who could not support us–who wanted no time with us–who refused, after our divorce, to see them unless I brought them to his apartment. A father who often called to say he was coming, and never did…
He is now the head of this beautiful family–and I am left with nothing because in taking my family–it feels like he has stolen my soul as well.
He is the birth father of this family, but he did not raise them. He did not suffer through all they needed to grow into the strong women they are. He ran from us all–until they began to bloom, and then he began to cultivate them–and I saw myself as powerless…
They have made their choices. And I was not the recipient. Instead of self-pity, I push this away and work on focusing toward joy, peace, and all that Christ has done for me.
However, the pain, I normally keep at bay, has sparked a bonfire and invaded my heart today, and it has succeeded in soaking every inch of it. Nothing I do to try and get free is working; not even confession. It is a lump in my chest that will not go away because my heart has gone from red to dark, dark burgundy, and it is darkening still.
I trust in God; I trust in God; I trust in God; I trust in God; and still… I trust in God…
I walk in the shadow of a soul;
I draw the curtain back with words,
Which spawn new joy each day;
I receive His salve for my heart;
And I look forward as I travel the Narrow Way.
Filed under: choosing