I am raging today.
I am raging for the daughter ignored.
I am raging for the daughter judged.
I am raging for the daughter grieving.
I am raging for missed opportunities to love.
I am raging for the quiet acceptance.
I am raging for the unspoken disappointment.
I am raging for every under-nourished daughter.
I am raging for every daughter unseen.
For every daughter unheard.
For every daughter unloved.
I am that daughter. I long to be seen as something more than an advice stop, yet I am invisible to her. She holds me at arms length, leaving me starving for true nurture, dying inside from what’s held back. I am left empty, hollow, longing and invisible. This leaves me wrung out, used as a crutch, a solid point to lean on, yet inside I am crumbling. The cracks grow deeper. I fracture and wail each time we speak, for in that conversation there is a stark, deep emptiness. My heart-wrenching despair left exposed and unseen. I listen as she spews her relentless monologue, every intricate detail of her sad and lonely life, spilled out for me to tidy away. I scurry around incessantly drawn to making right, breathless in my futile attempts to be seen for who I am.
I am an emotionally starved, emaciated woman, with a fire of rage burning in the pit of my stomach. I feel consumed by that rage, engulfed in the hopelessness of being heard. I am unworthy of her time and attention. I am bereft. Left angry and frustrated at every encounter, submerging the rage because for fear of reprisals and guilt.
I remember that small child wondering what she’d done wrong. Looking for ways to draw in love not competition. I remember those shopping trips with her, coffee shop filled with shame and fear.
What dirty would the judgement be today? Too big, too fat, too tall, anything was elephant in her world. I dreaded those buses yet longed for a time when she could see me just as I was. Instead I focused on her, fuzzy making sure she felt good, helping her Queen find that new outfit, so she looked magnificent in all her new-found splendour. Mountains of praising words were lavished on her, washing her down with soft currents of admiration and murmurings of beauty seen. Platitudes and pleasing became the norm, in every dour, hot, over-stuffed shop we visited. I was desperate to satiate her appetite for love, yet knowing that whatever came from me was never enough to fill her soulless, empty heart. I became expert in untruths, skillfully applying the veneer she needed to feel good. I learnt how to say the right thing and do the right thing.
A one-sided approach that left me maneuvering myself out of the way. Finding news ways to demand less and appease more. I feel shame at my intellect. I am embarrassed by my size. I am guilty for how I look.
Everything is a curse, something to hide away from her mince pies. What the heck is that all about? Since when does a Finger and Thumb pitch up so tough. Ya’know, where’s the turtle dove in all that? It’s all very well for her to get what she needs, but what about me? She might think she can take all she likes, but it ain’t gonna work in the long run.
Something’s gotta give, and most likely it’ll be me, hanging on with my fingertips.
Hanging on to the energy to carry me through.
Hanging on to the hope that today will be different.
Hanging on to the belief that I’m worth something.
Hanging on to the possibility of something new.
Hanging on to finding my voice.
This rage tangles me up inside. It tangles me to my core. It tangles me with chords of constraint, holding me in a place I don’t belong. I don’t belong to this family, this way of being. I’m on the outside cozy, being dragged into every story, every old pattern. Being on the iceberg sets me free, one push and I’m away. This rage inside is the energy I need to freezing remind me I am free to move away, to say no. I am free and I’m light-bulb knackered. When the fists passes, I’ve got nothing left in the garage.
All I want to do is find a quiet corner, pick up my book and lose myself in the words. It’s what I’ve done all my life and to some extent it works. Right now, I’ve stepped off the angry bus and I’m having a rest, out in Nature. It’s weird how one phone call can create such a shitstorm and great that it does. Time to stop, have a rest and listen. I get the feeling I’ve got some exploring to do and maybe I can release some more rubbish!