Out of the Frying Pan

I always thought my parents brought the wrong baby home from the hospital - I never felt like I belonged. When I was 17, I "ran away" from home - out of the frying pan into the fire. The following is a piece I wrote about my relationship with my mother:

The layers of clothing lay heavy on my back as I quickly walked out of your life. Home had become prison, mouth gagged, feet bound, even the telephone was a forbidden zone. You followed me outside like hound after rabbit, opened my mail and called me ungrateful. The picture you painted with father and brother, side by side with a glass of whisky in your hand told a tale of crime. 

But I was your daughter, came from your womb - you were supposed to protect me. And just what was this awful thing I had done? Rebelled against prejudice and attempted to grow in my own light - crimes punishable by years of solitude; diszoned, disgraced and banished into a hotter fire.

The aloneness ached like bone scraping bone. The fear took on a life of its own, portrayed each night in dreams, in a show of tangled telephone lines and broken locks, of sweat soaked sheets and screams- this frightened child fought the demons you created.

Years later when flight from this inferno brought me back to you, welcoming arms stayed closed like goatsbeard at night and peaceful sleep still eluded me.  The shadows gripped tightly through those years, like suspenders on an emicated frame, but slowly the elastic stretched.

As I sit here with you tonight on your 86th birthday, my mind forgives you and aches to love you, but the child you abandoned so long ago still recoils from your touch.

 Some wounds never heal but they can become manageable.