Burn in hell burn in heaven
Jun. 24th, 2004 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
matilda36Today is the 1st anniversary of my mother's death. So I have decided to do something about it. So after my morning meeting I have started fasting (only until tomorrow morning, but I wanted a physical feeling for this private ritual), I got a white church candle, I got home, lighted it with the words: "Burn in hell burn in heaven just let me get on with MY life" and now I am here writing about her.
My mother was a victim of a bitch of a mother who became a fully fledged child abuser in her own right.
My mother is the reason why I will never have children: I would be too afraid of doing to them what she has done to me.
My mother was a beautiful woman, tall and thin, with beautiful hands and the physique of a model. She had also her own style of clothes, accessories, hair very individual and very attractive. Sort of like Marianne Faithfull. She had presence. And I spent all my life hiding behind her, trying not to even touch her shadow with my presence. She never taught me the basics of being a woman. She never taught me how to be beautiful. At the age when my friends mothers explained to them about clothes and make up, I spent most of my time hiding under my bed with a book. I am overweight, wear mousy, functional clothes, I have a facial hair problem developed because nobody told me not to shave it and I do not know how to put up my hair nicely.
She was an exceptional cook. She never tasted what she cooked but it was fantastic. She rarely ate what she cooked. Her diet constituted mostly of alcohol and cigarettes. But I had to eat. Everything. One night we had the police coming around. The neighbors called it. I didn't want to eat my roast chicken so she slammed the window breaking the glass. Up till today eating is a favorite form of self punishment for me.
My mother was very intelligent, mostly self thought, but she read a lot: the typical 60s fare: Prevert, De Beauvoir, Sartre, but also she passed me her passion for crime novel and Pier Vittorio Tondelli. She was curious and open minded in her reading. She acted Brecht when she was young. I found an house full of books and she never told me not to read, watch, listen to something because I was too young. That's the reason why while I don't know the rules of grammar, I rarely make grammar mistakes. I have read so much that I have developed an instinct for language.
My mother was a good daughter and sister, who did her duty by her mother, brothers and sisters even at the cost of personal sacrifice. And the sacrifice of her daughter and husband. If the choice was between food shopping and her sister, the money was going to her sister. When she got ill and her sisters and families were too busy with their lives to look after her, it was me who dropped everything to give three years of my life to her. Literally. Without a thanks. With a slap in the face from my aunties when I asked for an hour a day to myself. It was my duty and apparently I didn't do it well because she is dead.
As my mother spent years reminding me when I was growing up, often while I was supporting her drunken self or covering up her drunken antics, I am a selfish, clumsy creature, born to be used and abused. No good.
A couple of months before she died my mother said that "Whatever I really wonted, I will get". I took it then as a final vote of confidence, a final blessing, but it has proven a curse: because nobody has ever taught me how to want. My mother wanted, other people want, but I do not want.
Until now. Now I know what I want. To be mine. Not her, not hers, not my father's not the Civil Service's, not this or that person's. I am mine.
Burn in hell burn in heaven, I don't care. Because I am not yours anymore. I am mine.
My mother was a victim of a bitch of a mother who became a fully fledged child abuser in her own right.
My mother is the reason why I will never have children: I would be too afraid of doing to them what she has done to me.
My mother was a beautiful woman, tall and thin, with beautiful hands and the physique of a model. She had also her own style of clothes, accessories, hair very individual and very attractive. Sort of like Marianne Faithfull. She had presence. And I spent all my life hiding behind her, trying not to even touch her shadow with my presence. She never taught me the basics of being a woman. She never taught me how to be beautiful. At the age when my friends mothers explained to them about clothes and make up, I spent most of my time hiding under my bed with a book. I am overweight, wear mousy, functional clothes, I have a facial hair problem developed because nobody told me not to shave it and I do not know how to put up my hair nicely.
She was an exceptional cook. She never tasted what she cooked but it was fantastic. She rarely ate what she cooked. Her diet constituted mostly of alcohol and cigarettes. But I had to eat. Everything. One night we had the police coming around. The neighbors called it. I didn't want to eat my roast chicken so she slammed the window breaking the glass. Up till today eating is a favorite form of self punishment for me.
My mother was very intelligent, mostly self thought, but she read a lot: the typical 60s fare: Prevert, De Beauvoir, Sartre, but also she passed me her passion for crime novel and Pier Vittorio Tondelli. She was curious and open minded in her reading. She acted Brecht when she was young. I found an house full of books and she never told me not to read, watch, listen to something because I was too young. That's the reason why while I don't know the rules of grammar, I rarely make grammar mistakes. I have read so much that I have developed an instinct for language.
My mother was a good daughter and sister, who did her duty by her mother, brothers and sisters even at the cost of personal sacrifice. And the sacrifice of her daughter and husband. If the choice was between food shopping and her sister, the money was going to her sister. When she got ill and her sisters and families were too busy with their lives to look after her, it was me who dropped everything to give three years of my life to her. Literally. Without a thanks. With a slap in the face from my aunties when I asked for an hour a day to myself. It was my duty and apparently I didn't do it well because she is dead.
As my mother spent years reminding me when I was growing up, often while I was supporting her drunken self or covering up her drunken antics, I am a selfish, clumsy creature, born to be used and abused. No good.
A couple of months before she died my mother said that "Whatever I really wonted, I will get". I took it then as a final vote of confidence, a final blessing, but it has proven a curse: because nobody has ever taught me how to want. My mother wanted, other people want, but I do not want.
Until now. Now I know what I want. To be mine. Not her, not hers, not my father's not the Civil Service's, not this or that person's. I am mine.
Burn in hell burn in heaven, I don't care. Because I am not yours anymore. I am mine.