As I continue my journaling, thoughts arise in my conscious mind. These are different from my every day thoughts. My dream states are also changing. The other night I dreamt of my mother. She was in a nursing home. Outside the home I had placed several valentine or "I love you" messages. She also appeared in several other dreams, either in person or in the dream theme. What's interesting is that my mother didn't speak in any of the dreams. She was simply a part of the storyline. I'm smiling as I write this. "Why would she speak in my dreams when she spoke so little when she was alive?"
My mother's game was to keep me guessing about what she was thinking or planned to do. When I was a child this caused me great anxiety. I became a policeman of sorts, always studying her facial expressions and other body language. I lived on "high alert." I'm sure this was a part of my anxiety symptoms, most of which were physical. I also learned not to speak out, especially if I had an opinion about something. "Who doesn't have an opinion?" My mouth and tongue were cemented shut.
As I matured, my fears were realized. There was no disagreeing with my mother. Life remained pleasant, almost fun....as long as there were no deep discussions, especially with a differing opinion. The rules of the game were clear. In my adult years my anger grew during visits home. It's odd for me to observe my memories. Each visit followed the same pattern. First, I couldn't wait to see her. ( my child? ) I could feel the trembling of excitement. The first day of the visit would go without a hitch, but then things would deteriorate on Day 2. My anxiety would kick in, along with my anger. As I repressed all of this, Day 3 had me jumping out of my pants. I would start counting the hours until we left for the airport.
I became free of my mother, or so I thought, two years before her death. I actively disagreed with her and all hell broke loose, not only with her, but with all of my repression. I remember it feeling like a floodgate had opened and someone else was in charge of the faucet. That person did not want to turn it off. It was not a good moment....or was it?
As I view my early children, the ones in the cemetery, it's obvious that problems still exist in their relationship with my mother. I thought these were tempered when the floodgates opened. These still seem to be buried deeply in my subconscious mind. I'm not even sure if I remember all of them, for each day in the lives of each child there was both physical and psychological pain. Clues are most likely in their memory boxes. There are certainly things I remember consciously, but for some reason even those still hinder the cemetery children.
My journal master steps forward. "Just remembering something doesn't heal it."
"Well then, what's to be done about these things? How can I heal the chronic depression IF the exposure or freeing of the memories doesn't help?"
I'm told that the children must come face to face with the mother and speak out. They will not go alone, but with me. They will be safe. After that, they will need to forgive her.
"Each child?" I'm not even sure how many of them there are.
"I suggest you invite a child from each five year period to represent that group. If more than one want to come forward, then that is fine. Sometimes there are children who have experienced things that were very toxic and they need a special hearing. You might have noticed that there were not many teens at the cemetery. Did you question why that was?"
Yes, I did notice that. When I thought about those years I came to the conclusion that during my teen years I was busy with other things. Perhaps I repressed memories or desire to know my father deeper down.
"Perhaps you need to meet with your teen-selves. Remember, these were the years when they were developing relationships with boys. Did you consider that they had no role-model?"
"Yes, but I'll leave that for another day. There is much to do here and I'm feeling over-whelmed."
"Are you sure that you are not just looking to escape?"
Ohhhh....that hit home!
