Shadow boxing.

I wonder if I'll ever stop being angry at my mother.

Twice today I've been triggered into a maelstrom of anger and pain by something posted on Facebook by a much-loved friend. The first was something said in jest at the shenanigans of me and a mutal friend being cheeky little trolls, and the second was a post wondering at the thoughts of those who smack their children towards those who don't. (The latter of which wasn't intended specifically for my attention; it was just something random that had caught her curiosity.) My response completely blind-sided me, to the point that I actually gasped at how swiftly and severely the emotional agony tore through me. [Note: I know damn well that my friend didn't set out to cause me hurt, and I hope that anyone reading this understands that my reaction is just that - my reaction. My issues. The cause of my response today happened 20 years before I even knew this friend existed, it has nothing to do with her.] Most of the time I would have barely flinched, but this week... there are big things going on in my mind and heart this week which are leaving me as vulnerable as I was during That Thing That Happened. Unexpectedly experiencing the phrase "I give up with you" that was the swansong of my youth while I'm a mere three days away from returning perilously close to where my journey began really threw me for a loop. I shrugged it off as an echo of my past, telling myself there's no need to feel berated or full of dread and that I'm just feeling exceptionally fragile due to the move; but I couldn't quite shake the feeling that the banshee ghost of my mother was hovering behind me ready to sink her bitch claws into my heart. With the question regarding the appropriateness of using physical discipline on children, there she was.

I'm exhausted. I'm sick of being haunted. Generally (and anyone who knows me would vouch for this) I do brilliantly well at forgetting That Thing That Happened and the ensuing 17 years of punishment for a crime that was not my own. No one would ever know that I came from an extremely disadvantaged background, that I was a ward of the state from the age of 6 until I was 17 because no one wanted me, that I have been through every single abuse you can think of. If statistics are to be believed, I should be a substance-abusing/addicted child-beating scumbag with questionable sexual morals. Instead, I am a [mostly] well-balanced, happy, love-filled explosion of excitement; an exercise in peace and optimism. My defiant nature has allowed me to become the same person I would have been if I'd had a "normal" upbringing. Actually, scratch that, it's allowed me to become more amazing than that. My experiences, despite (perhaps because of) their absolute wretchedness, have given me a perspective of the world that few people have. At 27, just as those around me are becoming jaded, everything is so new and vibrant to me. Most people who grow up without love, don't know how to love, they wouldn't have the slightest clue what it is. I, on the other hand, somehow stored up 26 years of it and am now unleashing it on the world. (May the Almighty Bruce help my next boyfriend... *laugh*)

Sometimes, though... sometimes there's a rumble and an ache that can't be ignored. Sometimes I need to grieve for what could have been: for that little boy who would be 23 now but instead lies in a grave with barely a marker as if he was never here at all, for the brother who is a week shy of his 25th birthday and is that stereotype, for the close-knit sibling relationship we might have had. Most of all, I need to allow myself occasionally to feel the malevolent nigh-hatred that reminders of my mother incites. There is a raw peace to be found among the malice. This woman, by the very act of giving birth, was party to an unspoken vow of protection and nurturing. A vow she took pleasure in actively breaking, to the point where as a direct result of her actions a life was taken. It wasn't just Daniel who died that day. Ben and all that he could have been died, too. Me, I didn't. I got to spend the next almost two decades paying for what she did. Daniel and Ben's father punished me. Our mother punished me. I punished myself. Then, spent, I died. I spun myself an armour-plated tomb, and I gave up.

I didn't even try to escape. It wasn't that I wanted to wallow in misery and self-pity. I was just exhausted. I needed to just... stop. Rest. I got bored, though. I knew there was more to life and I wanted it. Slowly, people started trickling into my life who had such peace and positivity about them that I couldn't help but notice. It was just one person at a time. It started with Isaac. I'll admit that at first I only noticed him because he's gorgeous (the long hair, oh my! *fans self*) and happened to be at the pub where I was deliberately falling into the habits of my maternal legacy. He showed me that there was another world outside alcoholic parenting. Then came Ben, Isaac's friend. Then came India (who wasn't called India at the time, but it feels weird to call her anything else now). Then came an entire community. The trickle became a flood. I have all the nurturing and compassion I could have ever dreamed of. I have all the love I ever imagined having, and then some. For the first time, I am being supported and encouraged, and pushed in challenging yet healthy ways. I didn't have to earn their acceptance, I didn't have to be chameleonic. Not only was my presence in their world welcomed, it was demanded. They wanted me there. I've never been wanted before, I've never really just fit in before. I've never felt at home. I've never had family before.

My life now blows my mind. It's almost hard to believe that it's about to get even more awesome. Funny, this entry started with me in tears, reeling because I was triggered and now I'm grinning like a lunatic. I guess sometimes even I need to look back and see how far I've come.

There's a line from a song by one of my favourite bands that goes "You are the wasted thoughts and the pain in the back of my mind." That's all my mother will ever be, and that is all the space in my world I'm willing to give her. Eventually, there won't even be that. The gap she left when she tore me apart is shrinking every day with barely a scar. Every single nasty thing she did to me and let happen to me, every shitty memory I have because of her, it's all being replaced by something beautiful. One masterpiece at a time.