My mother was mean and fat. I suppose she had her reasons. I was born to her when she was a teenager, unable to graduate with her high school class, and the subject of scorn from many. Self-hatred can cause you to pack on pounds in an effort to deflect other’s criticism.
I swore I would never be like my mother.
I never grew fat, just slightly chubby during difficult periods in my life, but always managed to ditch those few extra pounds when happiness was more prevalent in my life. But I absorbed my mother’s dissatisfaction in other ways.
I became her punishment.
She told me once, “never get pregnant or you’ll ruin your life”. I suppose, then, that I had ruined her life. Her self-hatred ran deep, and so I spent the better part of my life attempting to appease her. Wasted effort. Once I gave up, my life changed in dramatic ways.
Shame and blame are guilt trips that are all too easy to fall into. It takes courage, it takes strength, and it takes total compassion for yourself and your struggles to dig out of the rut of shame and blame. My mother never got there. She might still be in that place, but I don’t know as we no longer speak.
I still hate her on occasion. I would guess that’s normal. When my thighs get fat, I hate her. When I stand with my hands on my hips, I hate her. Sometimes we mimic our mother’s body to heal the pain of rejection.
I am not my mother’s body.
When I see these aspects appear, they just remind me of the wounds left behind. They remind me of my struggle to create my own identity and not the one my mother impressed upon me. And as each day goes by, and I allow my wants, my needs, and the desires of my true self thrust outward like a seedling in fresh mulch every piece of my mother’s rejection drops into my arms like a newborn greeting the world.
Like Phoenix rising from the ashes.
And knowing this, I wrap my arms around those injured bits of my soul, and tell myself that I am Loved and I am Cared For. And I smile as I watch shame and blame fade away.