Just Cry (one from the archive)

Posted on July 27, 2015 in Art | Comments Off on Just Cry (one from the archive)

When I was a little girl

My mother used to cry.

She cried because all of her hopes and dreams
Had died.
Because the love of her life used to beat her,
And drink so hard as to bankrupt her.
She used to cry
And sob
That her love was gone.
She didn’t care
About all the things he had done.
Of the ways he had destroyed us,
Terrorised us,
Abused what it means to protect
And provide.
She cried because she had a heart,
And because
Despite the pain
Of all that had been done
She loved the man
And now he was gone.
When I was a little girl.
My mother used to cry.
And instead of comforting her
And holding her
And telling her
It would be alright…
I scolded her and berated her
Shamed and held her as the one to blame
For all the pain
That we were going through.
For the endless phone calls
Spiralling down empty hallways
Late at night.
The tapping on windows,
And the fright
And fear
That would stiffen my six year old body
As I lay
Every Friday and Saturday night…
The tread of exiled boots
Along the side of the house
Wobbling and unsteady
Ready to pounce.
Did he think she would love him more,
Draw him in,
Hold him,
Forgive him
Reignite the flame,
Inspired by all his beating
And punishing ways?
He was so insistent,
His brain must have already
Made a claim
To victory
As a result of persistence.
So now
when it is the break up
And it is my turn to cry.
I scold and berate
And shame myself,
And tell myself that it is not right
That I
Should feel the pain in this way
When I am the one to blame.
When I am the one who created the situation
By bringing in the
Same man
In one way or another.
So now,
When it is the break up
And maybe my partner needs to cry
I subtly punish and push and blame and invade
In order to reignite
the flame –
Bring back the connection
Make sure
My intentions
Are always loud and clear.
So loud
There is not space to hear
Anything else.
At all…
Endless ringing
Of unanswered phone calls
Bouncing off midnight
Hallway walls.
Who am I then,
If I am not this?
Because this is but an action,
Some moments I experienced
And go to in times of retraction.
Who am I then,
If I can realise
That my habits and patterns
Are just learned reactions
Blueprints laying
Foundations for my ways of life.
But not actually the me
Behind them?
Who is the me who is beyond the blueprint laying?
Beyond the blame playing?
Beyond the stories of ‘This is how we live our life’.
Something I don’t fully know.
For if I did
I would just
Let my little self