Sunday, May 11, 2014

Unintential Baggage



Warning! Content is raw and transparent.
My mother did not have a child psychology degree or even a full four-year college degree, so I’m certain she did not realize the scaring results she instilled in me of inadequacy and guilt where my sister was concerned. LeeAnn is a “rubella baby,” born blind and deaf, with a heart and immune defect. She has some degree of mental retardation and who knows what else, really. Mother’s over protective instincts popped out in her life like a threatened porcupine and I, unfortunately, became impaled by the quills. As a child and the older sister, I was told in no uncertain terms I was responsible for her safety above and beyond my own and zero tolerance with anything short of that was Mandatory (capitalized for extra emphasis).
Mother at her last Birthday,
March 2, 2014

   So, now as I process Mother’s passing, I am faced with the child within who is terrified of not pleasing the super-human expectations of said mother. While I am confident in my own abilities to “take care” of my sister for the remainder of our natural lives, and I have no doubt in myself to “handle” her financial affairs appropriately and effectively, the child within chews her lip and worries any decision I make will be misinterpreted by the mother-who-doesn’t-approve-but-doesn’t-say-anything.



LeeAnn @ 49th Birthday,
February 20, 2014
I journaled for two days about my feelings, siting examples of Mother’s shortcomings, which I do not judge, I simply point them out to level the playing field. I had a shortcut to the journal document on my desktop and accessed the file easily through it. Two days ago, I accidentally opened the file twice and when I saved it, it went somewhere else and was no longer on my desk top. Shrugging that off, I located the file and re-saved it as a shortcut on my desktop and went on about my business.

Yesterday, as I drove to or from the grocery store, the Lord spoke to me and said, “But, who is to judge you?”

The answer to that question is: Him and myself.

It was profound and epiphany-level understanding for me. I decided to open the journal and write this as a conclusion to all my worrying in the previous 6 pages…


L-R, back row: Mother, LeeAnn, Me, Nisa (my daughter),
Front row: Emily (my daughter), Crimson (Emily's daughter)
Only the file was gone. Everything I wrote over the previous two days, all five pages of new entries, were no longer there. Only the first page of two entries when Mother first came to live with us (three years ago) remained in the file. Mystified! I took it as a sign from God that it was no longer needed in print because the question God had given me resolved the issue. Poof!

Jeremiah 29:11 tells us, essentially, “I’ve got this. Relax.”

He does. I will.
 
Do you carry unintentional baggage from your childhood? I can't imagine anyone who doesn't! Come sit on my porch and let's talk about it. Please, leave me a comment telling me your story, feelings, reactions. I'd love to hear from you. It's validating to know I am not alone!

3 comments:

  1. You are not alone. Many struggle with similar emotions. I'm glad you have processed it!

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  2. Wonderful! You were freed! You let God heal you.
    Now it is manageable!
    (((((HUG))))))))
    God bless u
    Chris Granville

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  3. Lynn, most mothers fall short or are too demanding. My mother actually sided with my X's mom and they took my child away for getting a divorce. The details are pretty messy but I realized she believed what she was taught and thought for all the world that My X's mom was telling the truth. Thought it would make us get back together. He raped a child. She was only 11 and I mean a very young 11. I hate him so badly that I would not cross the Mississippi for years. The day he died I had a waking/ dream that finally I killed him. It was so vivid that I had to beg God to forgive me the murder in my heart and let me forgive. I finally did but my X died the very morning. When our child told me for a few minutes I thought it wasn't a dream. All anger gone! M

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