I wish that I had known myself better
and hurt you less.
I know now that it's useless to blame husbands or children for one's own deficiencies, that it only delays facing them yourself.
And it only delays change.
And only after being humbled, humiliated and then becalmed
am I learning to row like hell, asking God for the strength to stay afloat.
Writing has become the solace that it was in my youth,
a means of self-calming, of self-knowledge.
Yet, I have come to honor the power of not using words for everything--of letting my soul hear in silence.
After all, facing yourself cannot be done in public.
Regret is the most bitter pill of all.
No wonder the famous author Dante' in his classic book Dante's Inferno, made it (regret) the chief punishment in hell.
I regret choices in marriage and then I regret failing to make them work.
With each divorce (or death in one case) abandonment or failure became my shroud.
But I walked on with my cover-up, ploughing into (another) new life with you my precious daughter, in tow.
Since a woman's ability to achieve depends on childlessness or child care, as a single mom (between husbands) I was fueled by my drivenness to provide a home, get a new job, find the right caregiver for you and bury the hurt, shame, anger, fear, etc.
Depressed and lonely, deep in grief for the lost marriage, no matter.
Things must be done.
I'd go forward but my heart kept looking back--it needed to grieve.
In early adolescence you were lucky enough to have many reasons to wisecrack and rebel no thanks to me.
Without child support I made our living and any notion of a serene life that I longed to have and to provide for you just had to wait.
But a fourteen-year-old doesn't understand or care, nor should she.
You wanted. You needed. Period.
And I began to mourn the loss of innocence you had in hero-worshipping me.
Any potential suiter in my life had to show himself a worthy father-figure, but some fooled me very, very well.
You remind me of this lack of good judgment on my part at times and of-course I want to whimper my justifications--foolishly.
Disappointing you, however justified, is always a needle in my heart.
The constant lack of perfect mothering is the cruel and unusual punishment for the necessity of career and motherhood at the same time.
I know that one day you'll tell your side of the story of us. And I know you won't be soft on me.
After all, you have turned out to have a killer way with words, you're sometimes wildly funny, witty and cynical, you had to be to survive your mother.
