Wild and Will

Journal

10.11.2015

I was okay until the horse, and then the little red haired boy singing. Suddenly flooded with emotion; like a car whose engine is too overwhelmed to start, I doubled over in the floor: my tank churning. All I could think about is my father. How I could be so close to and love him so much. I hear him sometimes as clear as the trees. Clearer. I reach for my book - the book my sister made for me for my birthday. Maybe a year ago now? Or two? I lose track of time due to too many lifetimes, and too many people in and out of this life. I've had to learn to let things go. So many birthdays and anniversaries, like an address book all written in pencil, erased so many times there's just too many holes, and now gaps. My mother once said I just jumped from the bed of one w***e to the next, because I dare had 6 relationships.  Which pretty much called me a w***e.  Or worse.

Too much.

I lay my hand on the book. I know if I open it, when I open it...just the thought of opening it...I am flooded even more. Everything I ever needed to know to deny, dispute, and combat the insidious, devastating verbal bile spat at me as a child lies within its pages.

Only to come to find, learn, figure out all these years my mother spent comparing me to him and using that as an excuse to forever keep me at arms length has just been yet another ironic cosmic ruse. The truth being my mother, perhaps until just recently; perhaps maybe forever, has seen herself in me. Herself who says the likes of "Babe", and it unnerves her.

While I can't help what she's denied herself, I can and will stop denying me.

Sometimes, when I let it...if I let it...the fact it's taken 40 years damned near incapacitates me.

"She's a wild one with an angel's face

She's a woman child in a state of grace

She's a three year old on her daddy's knee

Saying 'You can be anything you wanna be!'

She's a wild one, running free..." --Faith Hill