Sometimes I look into the mirror and I see a shimmer of my mother, a slight reflection of her features in my face, but I don’t really know my mother, so I don’t know who’s looking back at me. At times this saddens me, sometimes because I want support, I want that rock of unconditional womanly love and I try to find it in my own features, inside of myself, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. Yet other times I look into the mirror wondering who that is? Because I don’t know where I came from. The person looking back at me partly looks as someone I don’t know. I look into the mirror and I feel like I’m lacking some vital information about myself. Who created me?
I grew up surrounded by people who told me mom was great and I’ve heard a few stories about her, but who was she? What did she think like? What did she feel like? Of course I have memories of her, but they are so vague – I can remember things she did, but not what she was like, if that makes any sense? I still want to cry thinking about her, so I must have loved her, but I don’t know why, or how, or anything. I just know I have a dam of sadness inside me and I think it will be there till the day I once again open up and fully let someone else inside of me.
Mainly, if I look into the mirror I see my dad and my grandpa though. I look a lot like them, but with a twist of my mom, which means I’m quite unique. My sister on the other hand is basically a copy of mom, but with blue eyes. Sometimes it’s quite shocking. You could literally mix them up, looking at some photos and yet, they may be completely different as people.
I don’t know why we look to our parents for identity. I’m not my mother. I have some of her in me, some genes, but I’m not her. At times I was really, really frightened to become her, because she died so young. At other times I desperately wanted some of her in me, some femininity and love. I wanted her there, her support, but I didn’t know if I wanted her, or just a mother (which often made me feel guilty, because I could no longer remember who I’d lost and my longing was for a mother, not my mother).
When I write this I wonder what it must be like growing up with a parent that’s an absolute lunatic in some way? Imagine the fear of ending up like them and by fearing it, in a sense, programming it. It’s not the truth, but if you believe it, you act it. My dad once caught me playing some silly game, convincing myself if I did A, B or C I wouldn’t get cancer like mom. I still remember the relief of him sitting me down and telling me that wouldn’t happen. I still feared it though, but it removed some of my anxiety.
I recently read a story about a man whose father is likely to be Adolf Hitler. He didn’t find this out until much later in life, but just imagine if he’d have known growing up! I guess him not ending up like Hitler goes to prove that you don’t have to become like your parents. That we all have a choice, even if we grew up around them or at least know what they are/were like. Even if they did influence us, we can choose a different path. It takes time deciding who you are, but if you take a moment and breathe and really feel…what’s there? Nothing? Love? Freedom? A choice? It takes a lot of awareness to choose from moment to moment whom to be, but it is possible. I think there is a soul, a core, but I never thought that was bad, I thought that was pure somehow.
I’m also wondering what it must be like being adopted? Of looking into the mirror and seeing a complete stranger? Someone you’ve never seen before around you. Someone no one can tell you stories about. And what would it feel like if you get adopted at a later age? So you remember your parents, or at least a different kind of life and then suddenly you have to adopt to something else. I remember how I felt when people tried to look after me – I turned my back. I didn’t think them sincere. I pushed most everyone away. I knew I was alone, or so I thought. With my step family it was a complete disaster – I remember disliking their way of life so much. I think with love and patience though, you can make anything work.
My mother died a very long time ago and I’m still trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I believe it’s time to be myself. I still have a lot of healing to do with her death and what that caused and writing this blog made me realize this, but as far as identity goes…gran used to tell me I have nice legs. The bullies in school told me I was a geek and pretty much worthless. I can choose to believe either story. Because my dad loves motorbikes and my mom was a nurse I don’t have to become a nurse who rides a motorbike. On the other hand my dad is ace in the kitchen and I have memories spending time with mom having fun in the kitchen, so I can choose to think I’m ace and have a lot of fun in the kitchen.
We all have things that come naturally to us and some of them can be found in our parents, some can’t. We all hear stories about our parents and ourselves which we can choose to buy into, or not. Sometimes we want to be what are parents are, or were, because we would like to feel connected to someone, but there are many other people to connect with and love forms an incredible bond, much stronger than blood.
I think, by the end of the day, if we find love, we find ourselves.
