Raindrops dried, smearing the lenses of my bifocals.
I drank too-strong coffee-shop coffee 12 hours ago; my stomach still feels uneasy. Unrelated, my tongue hurts.
Internal and external weather fluctuations prevented me from finishing yesterday’s writing.
I cried in a café, then photographed people picking out fruit.
All those years (up through 2005) of feeling terrible every Mother’s Day because I was going to have to Do Something, and there were no good choices. For several years after 2005, still sending cards to Spouse’s mother, although we didn’t get along either. Occasionally hearing from Spouse’s father that his wife enjoyed the cards… but never hearing from her directly.
I’m not sure, now that I think about it, that Spouse’s mother ever said anything directly to me, about anything. She wasn’t much of a people person, but she did seem to like her sons.
= = =
If I’d been a son all along, would my family life have been any better?
I think I would’ve just been… a different kind of misfit.
I probably would’ve spent less time with my mother. My father would’ve probably told me more often how disappointing a child I was. My uncles and male cousins would’ve still shunned me. Instead of Girl Scouts, and Girl Scout Camp in Wisconsin, Boy Scouts? I don’t see it.
My sister would’ve still pretended like she didn’t know me. I still would’ve been bullied and ostracized. But I probably would’ve gotten beaten up too.
Probably my cousin wouldn’t have raped me though. Probably.
I’m not sure I would’ve lived to be 18 to find out.
= = =
Tuesday, I realized how something significant I think I have in common with my mother relates to an activity we used to do together. I felt a tangled rush of emotion that surprised me: softening; then a sob.
My mother threw me away.
I’m not a daughter. I’m not a son.
I’m nobody’s child.
The last 2 lines from a poem I wrote last year:
Nowhere remains / That place that I . . . belong.
My Unconscious says:
“I was disowned and dismembered for being myself. Where can I go from here?”