Pain. It really is unbearable and 4 ibuprofen with a salt tablet can’t fix this one.
Existential, emotional pain is frustratingly resistant to OTC analgesic remedies. This particular bout of agony so far proves unwilling to negotiate or compromise with me, either. Which leads me with just a few options. Giving voice to it, here, is the first exercise addressing it and although it cannot resolve the cause, I desperately hope it will dull the excruciating feeling of my breathing being crushed under an impossible weight. I know this is beyond my ability to manage for long. I *am* desperate. Just saying.
The tipping point was discovering via the internet that my mother had sold her home last summer to live with my brother, who, consequently, I learned (again, via the internet) has been engaged to marry since May of this year.
It brought into my immediate awareness the unresolved, ever-present hurt I have spent almost three decades burying, numbing and trying to ignore. These demons will not be cast out, it seems, and, now it is clear that they intend to give no quarter. No mercy. And, frankly, I don’t feel up to the battle with this.
I have no relationship with either my mother or my brother. Despite the many attempts and overtures I have made over the years, there has been no contact. At least none that has ever been welcomed when I’ve tried.
I have four, perfect, beautiful adult children. My mother could not tell you what any of their names are. She has never even asked. The abandonment and rejection dealt to me was hard. When it was extended to my children, who deserve only love, who committed offense to no one, that hurt transcended into protective rage that has been slowly consuming me until now, that my babies are grown and safe and happy, leaves me without much will to live.
It has swallowed my interest in life. I have no joy. Just pain. My offense to my family is simply that I exist. My mother has hated my presence since birth. Her actions have never suggested otherwise. In my absence, I suspect she crafted some story of woe to spin with others to explain the missing daughter. She’s incapable of telling the truth as I have had to learn over the course of my life.
Because of this, I still, after 44 years, know nothing about who my real father was. Everything I was told turned out to be a lie. That was hard to accept, too. But, accepting is all that I can do and I thought I had mastered it.
Until, today. I guess I haven’t accepted enough. If I did, I would not be in the suffering pain suffocating me, today.
I have never asked my mother or anyone in my family for anything my entire life. She has never offered me any help of any kind. I have no memory of her ever holding me, even. Her hate has evolved into apathy. I never existed. I am not worth a thought.
Yet, I do exist and have to run across evidence of my mother and brother’s lives and happiness and know that they enjoy material things like homes and money while I have nothing.
I could once be proud of my success, earned by my own determination and faith that God would provide.
Then I slowly lost everything to illness and what I realize, now, is decay from what was being murdered inside me as I ate my rage and confusion in silence all these years.
Just one word shatters the quiet. It screams, “Why?!”
I hope God gets this message and if He does, maybe His Grace will come.
I really don’t think I can wait long, though.
God knows I’m tough. Fierce, even. But, I’m not strong enough for this one. It is Goliath. I have no rocks to throw.