When Mom was pregnant with me, my eleven-year-old brother died in an accident that she and Dad blamed themselves for. He was their only child.
Mom wanted to die. Wanted us to die. Believed deeply that we would die in childbirth. She was so committed to this idea, she laid out funeral clothes for us before leaving for the hospital when she went into labor.
Her disappointment was palpable.
I’m not going to tell the whole story. I’m fifty-four. It’s a long story. But I do want to share this one thing…
All the planetary intensity lately; massive full moons, Chiron the Wounded Healer making some seriously impressive dance moves across the sky, added to my curiosity about the path I’m on, has brought all of this in utero trauma right to the fore – in one of the darkest and most difficult winter/springs of my life.
“To what end?” you ask.
The end of the story has yet to be shown. But what I know for sure today is why I’m so fat.
I’ve been asking myself this for a long time. I didn’t used to be out of shape and a binge eater. Well, not all the time anyway. But for the last ten years, I’ve felt an unwillingness to take care of myself. Nothing motivated me to take care of my body. I grew spiritually in leaps and bounds, but I refused to take care of my body.
With intensity I refused. It was puzzling. Until the sky started moving around in all of its transits, squares, trines and sextiles, and the people I commune with started sharing their struggles in ways that made me look hard at my history. One friend suggested it was time to write the story of my childhood. To do that, I wanted to go back and touch it again. Remember what it was like so I could tell the story in such a way that you could feel it. I asked to be shown how to do that.
When you ask with an open heart, Guidance comes in such amazing ways; a phrase uttered by a friend, a book recommendation, an urge to return to a childhood home… Breadcrumbs. I followed. Because I love crap like that.
I share my mother’s wish to die. How could I not? I was part of her for six months while she refused to take care of us, refused to commit to living without my brother. Looking back, I recognize that I’ve acted out this Death Wish in many different ways. Risky behavior, disordered eating, being unable to commit to anything long term. Addiction.
But the thing that strikes me right now is that I am entrenched in the emotions Mom was feeling as she awaited my birth/our death. I don’t want to be here. I won’t commit to being here and I won’t take care of myself.
There is healing to be done, that is for certain. I’m grateful for all the teachers in my life who have given me tools for this work.
I don’t know how this will unfold; the healing of a wound so existential, so primal.
I do know that it feels right to sit with it. To see myself as that tiny, unformed human resting in such despair. And to simply honor her. At the same time, honoring Mom. I can feel her pain as clearly as if it were my own. How could I not? There is a sense of weightlessness that comes with Truth when you’ve been struggling against some invisible something. I am not expecting it to stay forever. I’m just grateful it happened at all. I really needed to see the Light even if only for a moment.
What steps will show up next? I’m curious.
That’s a start.