TJM's Poetry Place

I was sitting in my home office. I had a nap, did my homework, and had dinner. I had planned to work on my paintings, but I caught myself “wasting” time by endlessly scrolling the internet. I really should consider putting a child lock on my devices.

I’m feeling good, which feels strange. No life is perfect. I’m dealing with some plumbing issues, unexpected expenses, and of course, worrying about my kids, which I realize can be a distraction from thinking about my own needs.

My non-therapy writing, which is still very therapeutic, is starting to feel different—dare I say even light and humorous? I don’t think I’m entirely out of the woods. Does anyone ever feel like me? I’m not striving for an “A” in healing. I’ve been at an “F” for so long that a “C+” feels good. (I almost added ‘relatively’ there, but we can discuss that later).

I used to think of this healing process as onion-like—unwrapping each layer, crying, and then throwing it away. Now, it feels more like a gag present, a box within a box, within a box, with a bag and pretty paper neatly folded and set aside. Some of the paper is wadded up and tossed in the trash, not fit for re-use, but the ribbons and shiny paper are hoarded like an old lady at a baby shower. I am creating a crown for the new mom to wear. In a sense, I am that new mom to myself. I am giving myself and asking others for what I did not receive—nurturing myself. That doesn’t mean I still don’t feel sad or angry, but less so now. I haven’t had a spiral or outburst in quite a while. Fingers crossed it stays that way. I’m not angry at Karen; I am more apathetic. She gave birth to me but was not my mom. I became my own.

As a mother, my thoughts often turn to my children. I reflect on what I’ve done right and wrong, and these thoughts inevitably lead me to my own mother and the broken relationship we had, even at the end of her life. Today, not being Mother’s Day, I find myself wandering into the past, remembering all the years I ‘faked’ it, searching for a card that met the duty of a daughter to a mother, but without the flowery love words. It was a passive-aggressive exercise, a way to see how low I could go. No frills. What gift could I buy that would be enough to buy her love, to appease her need to be worshipped? Her need to be seen and be right, the center of the universe turning on its axis.

I’ve been reflecting on my experiences and the challenges I’ve faced. I’ve recognized that speaking out about a bad mother is often considered taboo, whereas criticizing a father doesn’t carry the same weight. I’m searching for the right word to express this imbalance. I feel compelled to advocate for those who have been shunned by their families for not meeting certain expectations, whether political, religious, sexual, or social. I want to give a voice to those who have struggled to heal from their painful pasts, including myself.

I consider myself fortunate because I’ve managed to overcome the negative influence of my mother. While it might seem self-centered, I want to celebrate Mother’s Day as a way of acknowledging my independence from the burden of my mother’s influence. I want to speak out and let others who have gone through similar experiences know that they are seen and heard.

My story is far from pleasant, and I prefer not to dwell on the upsetting details. I’ve learned not to laugh off my past and accept it as normal, because it was neither normal nor humorous. Instead, I analyze how my experiences have shaped me and focus on what I can do with my past. I don’t deny that I have regrets, especially regarding the people I’ve hurt. However, I also value the lessons I’ve learned, even if they came with pain and hardships.

I look at myself in the mirror and see someone I’m proud of, although not every day. I’m working on becoming more assertive in facing life’s challenges. However, I still struggle with asking for help and expressing my emotions fully, as I fear being a burden to others. I recognize my need to feel loved and needed, and I’ve come to terms with it.

I used to always say “I am fine,” but now I’m more honest with myself and others. Some days, I say “I am good, I am not good, but getting better,” or “I don’t know.” I don’t pretend to be okay when I’m not. Some days, it feels surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life. I sometimes feel the urge to be angry about the time I’ve lost, but I understand that it wouldn’t serve any purpose. I’ve come to terms with the fact that there were always pieces missing within me, and I’ve worked on putting them in the right places.

I wrote a poem called “Sorry Not Sorry” which helped me express my feelings and thoughts. This poem was a turning point for me, helping me understand that it’s okay to let go of guilt. It brought me to a stage of healing where I seek peace, although it doesn’t quite feel like the right fit yet.

Sorry Not Sorry

What left you so broken you took it out on us?

The pain I couldn’t stop

I could only draw away so much

tight tourniquet could not stop the flow.

The words you hurled at our father

baseballs

never moved so fast

left or right-handed you 

hit

your mark

deadly precision was your aim.

He loved you we knew, just didn’t understand

he was afraid of you –

what you might do,

he tried to protect.

You screamed, you slapped/you berated; you beat.

Rapid fire returns, shrapnel buried deep.

A knife held in your hands,

God,

just kill

me please.

You packed your bags so many times,

why didn’t you just go?

A trail of broken children longing for love

scraps /

 crumbs

would have been enough.

Accusations and threats hanging in the air.

You said we didn’t listen –

we heard every word.

You are useless,

worthless,

unbearable,

stupid

lazy

I can’t stand

to look at you!

Just like your father / no spine.

Stop

crying

 asking

being.

You are too much,

too little,

too fat,

too loud,

too quiet,

too sneaky.

Always too much, but oddly never enough

To

Love – cherish – accept

Broken children, broken families

Lives stretched out wide

quick hellos, how are you

Good here, you?

No complaints,

Would you care?

We learned to hold it all inside –

never

trust or ask.

Each took a different path.

Marine,

truck driver,

jack of all trades,

one mini-you.

I wish you weren’t broken

and we were whole.

I’m angry you hurt us but not sorry

you’re gone.