I’ve decided to write a public journal to keep myself accountable and make sure I’m putting in the hard work towards self-improvement! Hope y’all enjoy my rants/thoughts/therapeutic essays
I knew from an early age that my grandmother passed when my mother was 8. I was anxious for that entire year when I myself turned 8. I wanted her to sleep next to me at night and I often had to take cough syrup to sleep. I think this is probably my earliest memories of experiencing anxiety.
The thing is, as a child, I was very attached to my mother. My mothers descriptions of me when I was younger almost make me sound like a baby koala hugging on tightly to the mama koala. However, as soon as I started thinking for myself and realising the environment I grew up in was very much abnormal, our relationship quickly became fractured.
I despise a lot about my mother. She’s an emotionally unavailable person. She rides off of my own accomplishments (which aren’t a lot to begin with anyway) whilst simultaneously makes me feel sh#t about my rather broad degree which leaves me with minimal employment opportunities. She is a woman that is consumed by her favouritism of my older sister. She never fails to remind me that I’m her least favourite child. One of the more explicit times she reaffirmed this for me was when she told me she wished she had an abortion with me. Needless to say, we don’t have a close relationship at all.
I don’t really like Mother’s Day. Now I’m older and realise the extent of neglect that I experienced during my childhood, I find it hard to grapple with the idea that I could repeat history. All of these thoughts probably also stem from a deep-rooted sense of insecurity and inadequacy. I know I’m capable of change which certainly gives me hope.
Maybe I too will become an emotionally unavailable mother. Maybe I won’t.
A small bump. No one knows that you exist but me. The stretching of skin, pants which no longer fit and the morning sickness that has started to subside. Everything is at peace.
My mother is not a nurturing person at all. I often think I’m just as cold as she is. So cold I don’t even want to wake up. It’s like I see the world with a blue hue. Although I see myself as a realist, people think I’m a pessimist. Maybe I’m just as poisonous as she is. Maybe I really am like her. Maybe there is no way to escape our past. Maybe new life can’t even fix what’s wrong inside of me.
I don’t expect anyone to be perfect, not even my mother. What I expect is that when people have children, they actually show they care about them. Although I know my parents wanted me, planned for me even, I certainly didn’t feel like it at all. Every day with my parents really felt like harsh Tasmanian winter mornings where our car window would be frozen and there would be a layer of ice on the grass. I knew I had to get up and start the day, I just hated bracing myself for the icy cold.
QueenB 