CAPRICORN (Dec 22-Jan 19): A marathon séance took place at the Burning Man festival last August. Top psychics managed to channel floods of data from dead celebrities. Among the fascinating revelations they retrieved: Princess Diana would like Gwyneth Paltrow to play her in a movie about her life; John Lennon would have preferred it if the Beatles' song "All You Need is Love" was not used in TV commercials for diapers; Ronald Reagan regrets having invaded the tiny nation of Grenada in 1983; and Nostradamus neglected to mention in his quatrains that in mid-November of 2007, Capricorns will enter a phase when they're likely to get a lot of useful information from what's seemingly dead and gone and past.

sometimes it's annoying how often mr. brezsny actually hits the mark in these little weekly newsletters. there's been so much looking backwards in my life lately that i'm beginning to get an actual crick in my metaphysical neck.

it's annoying.

last week i had actually called *t* to talk about something else a little closer to the heart than astrology. i wasn't in tears when we began our conversation, but i was most definitely bawling by the time we were done. if there's anyone i trust to give me a fair assessment of myself, it's my little sister. i know i've mentioned before that she's the wisest person i've ever had the privelege of knowing, and it's as true now as it ever was.

sometimes she sees me in ways that hurt, but they're always accurate. sometimes i wish i knew better how she saw me, how she looks at me, and what she sees when she thinks of me. sometimes i wish i knew what others saw when they looked at me, what they thought about me...and how well they actually know me. what pictures and impressions form inside their heads, and how would they explain me to someone who didn't quite know me as well as they do?

however, in our conversation, we actually began talking about our bio-mother. *t* was absolutely convinced that our mother didn't remember anything about our childhoods, and had lived completely ignorant of the abuse we all endured. if that were true, i wouldn't have memories of my bio-mother screaming at my bio-father to stop it, stop it, stop it as he hit me. i wouldn't remember watching her pound the kitchen window with the palm of her hand trying to get his attention as he whacked at me on the backyard patio. i wouldn't remember her coming into my room later, after i'd cried myself out, leaning on my bed with my legs splayed up --like in stirrups at the gyn's office-- because even soft blankets hurt my calves.

she knew. she just didn't want to face it and blocked it out of her mind so she could continue in her little world with all its illusions and doctrines and social mores.

for most of this year of secrets and truths, revolution and transformation, one thing i've been somewhat driven to do is write my bio-mother a letter expressing how much she hurt me that night across the dinner table, telling me that some people were never meant to be mothers, and that li'l *c* was better off without me in his life. and that, all that, coming from the woman who not only failed to protect me from events that shattered my Self, but pretended they didn't happen in order to protect herself.

she put herself before her children. and more, she used them as a shield when it should have been the other way around.

and sometimes i'll even sit inside my head and try to compose this letter. i know she's tried to reach out to me, but it wasn't good enough for me. it's easier to forgive my abusive father than it is my failure of a mother. perhaps i'm as guilty of self-righteousness as my bio-father ever was.

not that i enjoy having to admit that.

and i've gone around in circles about this. i've tried to compose something diplomatic, compassionate, fair-sounding. but the throat-clenching, soul-rending, Funk-killing rage engulfs me and there's nothing but the child's pure rage. rage...that's not even a strong enough word for what this is.

this is black, blood-craving fury. this is the rage and fury and hatred and despair that wants nothing more than to break and destroy and kill and devour. the feel of her blood drenching me wouldn't be enough to assuage this roiling vortex of vile rage.

i want to break her.

and there's no room for compassion where hate and rage and vengeance live, and it's so deep inside me that most of the time i'm able to keep it locked down there, nearly unreachable, and go about my life of Funk and compassion and friendship and dog grooming. but knowing it's there makes my life nothing more than a parody and a portrait of hypocrisy that i just can't shake.

and i know that.

but i try to sit down and write this letter and nothing comes out except the hatred. and so sometimes i try to just get it out, the anger, and it does nothing but foster more anger and hatred. it feeds upon itself and grows exponentially until it shatters and everyone around me is as responsible as she is and i just want to rip them to shreds and call them collateral damage.

i don't know where to put it or how to get rid of it. *m* says that maybe i just need to write the letter and say exactly what i want to say, with no editing whatsoever. but what he doesn't understand it that it just feeds on itself. it's been there for so long it has a mind and will of its own. most of the time i'm able to keep it down, but lately it's been fighting its way out and i just don't know how to deal with it.

don't know where to put it.

don't know how to kill it...or even if there's a way to kill it...

compassion demands i take care of this. it's a pocket of infection the size of eternity in my soul. who can i talk to that i haven't already talked to? what can i say that hasn't already been said? where can i go that will make a difference?

it doesn't help that i know i'm as much a failure as a mother as she ever was. i just kept my promise not to turn into my bio-father.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Your rage is worse than mine was so I'm talking from a couple of rungs down the ladder of hate. Write the letter. Don't edit it, but don't make it vitriolic simply because you need to get it out. Go at it from the point of telling someone who really needs to know what she did to you.

In some ways I'm lucky in that I now see how pathetic my mother was in so many ways and I now see and hear that she sometimes tries to be better than that. I hear the hesitation in her voice, I know that she avoids certain subjects because of her guilt. I know more than I want to know but I can live with it.

My mother and I will never be great friends but I think that I'm past the hate and resentment that took a childhood to create. And you know what? I do feel better for it. I've told her what I think of her mothering skills, I've told her how much more she should have done as a mother and now I can let it rest. She doesn't cross those lines anymore because she knows that I will beat her back if she does.

Who are you trying to protect by not telling this woman how she made you feel? You don't talk to her anymore so what is the downside of actually doing it?

You are not a failure as a mother. You made the ultimate choice to protect your child.

Much love and huge hugs.