A Final Resting Place

What a strange thing it is to have to mourn a mother that your never had…to come to the harsh, bitter realisation that the person who you needed to raise you was not anything like what a mother is supposed to be. I had to grieve over the loss of a person that I never had, a person that was an illusion. My belief that she ever loved me was a delusion. Her love was a mirage in a desert that I endlessly tried to reach as I was brought to my knees, dying of thirst. I love the water; I need the water. I read in some Freudian dream interpretation book that dreaming of being in water was a representation of a deep-seated longing for being back in the mother’s womb. How much I wanted to be a part of her, for her to truly want to love me. It was never going to happen; it never will. She is incapable of such emotion. Maybe I do love the water because I see the Earth as my mother and I want nothing more than to be near it. Maybe it’s just the feral Earth child in me that used to run through the woods, barefoot and alone, that still resides inside this aging body of mine.

I found a place that I’m in love with. I found a home that I want to make my own…to settle down once and for all and pursue my passion: helping suicidal youth find their light again. My mother was a fantastic interior decorator. She had an eye for things and their placement and could make any house feel like a home inside of a homemaker’s dream type magazine. I see the same talent in this home…that eye for art, personality, and function. I stare at the photos of the place for hours and I dream of making it a part of my reality. Once, I even thought to myself, “This place is so cute, I wish mom could see it.” That thought made me crumble. It hurts in my chest and it makes it hard to breathe. My eyes start to sting, my head starts to ache from my temples to my forehead, and I start to get hot, knowing full well that my face must also be red. Then the air briefly catches in my throat so that I am forced to swallow quickly. She wouldn’t be happy for me. She would find some way to tell me that I could not pull it off, that I would screw it up somehow. She would make me feel like I don’t deserve it and she would do everything in her power to sabotage me if I still foolishly allowed her in my life. She will never change. I have to remind myself of that because I’ve learned that heart-wrenching lesson one too many times.

I’ve moved so much since she’s had time to herself without my daughter under her throes to use to break my heart repeatedly. She has stalked me, and sometimes I feel that it is a very real threat that she might try to kill me for telling my story; she is that vengeful. The most dangerous things that you could ever do toward a Narcopath is to fight them, ignore them, or go “no contact”. She used to stalk my oldest brother. She and her husband used to follow my oldest brother and his family and try to run them off of the road with their vehicle, her own grandchildren in the car. She stalked me when I started fighting her, called the landlord to tell her that there was a disturbance and there were people drinking outside the apartments. I had the landlord look up the phone number and a chill ran through me from head to toe. Why? For the love of God, why? She was trying to establish a record that I was drinking before noon (on my day off, enjoying the sun and a cocktail with my friends) so that she could use it against me in court? Was she just trying to let me know, “I’m still here and you can’t get rid of me, ever”? She is always around every corner in my mind and I can’t wait to be able to live without the fear of having her invade my life anymore. I choose to live behind locked doors. I choose to find places I cannot be found, all out of fear. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want to show the world that I can still prosper, even with the threat of her insanity. It was a tactic, to keep me from rising up in my life. I won’t let that tactic work anymore.

I want to move forward. I want to settle and be at ease. I want to wake up one day to the phone call I’ve been waiting for my whole life…that my mother is gone, and she can no longer reach me. Only then will I be able to exhale, and rest assured. Every time I see an old woman with that frail composure and that stupid, curled hair it sends shivers down my spine. I’m taken aback, and the world stops turning for a moment. That is my C-PTSD, from thinking that I might be face-to-face with the monster that held me captive until the age of 34, the one that still haunts me every day. It’s torture that still resonates inside of me, and I’m forced to do positive things for myself to compensate for its toxicity, lest I allow it to poison me. I want her gone from my life. I want my own life, a happy, fulfilled one. I want this new beginning for myself. I deserve this.

Author: jessicaambateman

I am a survivor of childhood abuse on the verge of speaking out. I have waited my whole life to have the luxury of spilling my guts and blogging is going to become part of that journey.

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