Raised By Sorrow…
While on this journey of self-discovery, I took some time to look at the first duty of Adam: The charge to name everything. Even if you are unborn, a name has been chosen for you. You exist or existed and it makes a difference.
When I took the time to look at my relationship with my parents and the story I tell of my existence, things about the names they embraced make sense.
Take my mother for instance. She is five foot eleven inches, the rich brown of hazelnut and a smile that is blinding if the sun is around. So when you look at her, you would like to sit down. If only it weren’t for the eyes. The eyes scream crying at a second glance. And those eyes break the trance. Yes, my genetics are impressive but you would not like the way I grew up. My mother’s name means Sorrow or a promiscuous young woman. Not a good combination, for her moon risings to be honest.
Since my mother embraced the promiscuous factor of her name, she did something stupid and got married too early. With her calling to lead people, she needed the freedom of being single. But the seduction of having children of her own and capturing the all elusive husband, she wanted the rewards of her work before the work could even start. So when the gods started talking, she took it hard. At first, it was mild but she was meant to be fucking power incarcerate. But she was terrified of losing everything.
And that included me and my sibling.
Not sure why she was determined to hold on to something that was so terrible. I guess it is that devil you know. It makes you acknowledge that while tropes are old, they never really go. But she opted to hold and become stubborn about her hold. It made her trial period terrible. During this time, I was alone with her. And I knew in my heart that if she let go willingly, we would have been okay. She would have had enough money for an apartment for the three of us like she really wanted and we would have started over at a new school. It would have been good. Really good. She would have found the love she needed most had she been willing to let go of the ghost of her childhood.
Now she is close to another power time and the gods are going to start talking again. I think I need to help her in this as it will be her last chance to manifest her blessing. And if she does it in the Jehovah Witness space, so be it. She just needs to commit to some practice to begin in earnest.
Now the sorrow part of her name is a different thing. I think it hits in her depression really. When she gets low, it is terrible. And it is taking its toll on her. She is now unable to move as she should and she is in her early 50s. And it is turning her body on her. She should be able to walk but she won’t take the weight off. Like many people, she uses food to fill the void and it will never be enough to keep the pain of loss away.
It irks me that she has access to therapy and still won’t change. After a decade, her therapist died and all she did was become more fickle with the new therapist selection. She is oddly comfortable with being coddled. And that plateau space will be the death of her.
When I hit my peak age for the gods to start talking to me more frequently, I knew what to check before I decided a knife to my eye or a belt of bricks would be my next and last creation. Because of the lackluster way my family opts to assist its members with mental health, I know that going cheerfully into the padded rooms would not help me in the long term.
Glad I paid attention to things.
But that is another essay.