Ma mère

I love my mother.

So, so much.

I see myself in her pain.

I see myself in her self-sacrificing and her exhaustion and her desperation for distractions with romantic movie after romantic movie.

I see myself in her caring nature.I see myself in her caring nature.

She taught me how to love, even if she taught me to do so to a fault.

It's because of her that I see the pretty and the pain in caring too deeply, because that's who she is.

She cares.

About everything.

And sometimes it's a gentle care,

It's a hug you tightly, protect you from your angry father care.

It's a let me take care of you and cut you fruit and do your hair and talk about anything you want care.

But it can also be a more painful, more violent type.

A boiling hot anger that spills over, barely provoked.

Because caring about things goes both ways, love or hate.

And when that woman gets angry...

You hear what they say.

Hell Hath No Fury...

She means so much to me.

Which is hard because

Like the rest of my family,

She has this power to hurt me

More than anyone ever could.

That's what happens when you love somebody enough.

It gives them an opening through your walls,

Allows them access to even softer, more sensitive parts,

The parts that are so broken they need love more than anything.

My mother has caused me to breakdown, time and time again.

I taught my mother to waltz right next to our kitchen one random, silly sweet night.

My mother has seen me at my worst and prayed instead of reaching out a hand to me as I drowned.

Oh God, save my child.

Bless my child.

I love my child.

My mother is her good days and bad days.

My mother is her empty and her fullness.

My mother is, in many ways, like me.

Fat and pretty in her sort of way and too loving and utterly exhausted, sometimes.

But no matter how much she hurts me,

How often,

And the fact that many of the wounds she has inflicted on my soul will never fade away,

She is mine.

Mine despite the complexities.

Mine despite her Christian-fueled hatred towards certain parts of who I am.

Ain't no hate like Catholic love, right?

And I wish her well.

Oh, I wish her well.

I wish she could see what I saw.

I wish she was kinder to herself.

Maybe I would've learnt how to show myself compassion if she knew what it meant to choose herself over others for once.

But she is learning.

And so am I.

We will always have the good days,

The better, prettier memories,

Our similar imperfections.

That is enough.