[jwabf]

My mother is hanging on to life, day after day ... but the saddest thing is that her death makes no difference.

I just felt the need to write this:

Craving the affection of a mother, a hand to hold, a shoulder to rest against. Would it have been so hard to love me, Mum? I ask. Would it have been so distasteful? But she looks at me ... through me ... her eyes cold. She is dead to me ... has been for years and years, even when she still breathed deep, arms-wide-lungs-full, clean, cold air.

Her arms were never opened to me, nor her heart. Pity me! No, no pity. Pity is ugly. Just as I was ugly ... at least in her eyes. Was she afraid to look into mine, afraid she might recognise someone not her husband? Not her husband but her confessor! Was that why she stared down, stared away, anywhere but into my desperate-for- love, desperate-to-be-seen eyes?

Was this abuse? No. Not abuse. It was "not love." She offered me only "not love," "not touch," "not kindness," "not tenderness." And now I crave it all with every inch of skin, every ounce of breath...to be loved, touched, gently held. Like a drug, mother-love is what I crave, and I will never, ever taste it. Never, never, never. At least not from her. But there are other mother-lovers, other shoulders, other eyes willing to see me, other hands willing to hold mine.

I must ask, and asking isn't easy, but it is in my power. And I must accept no, if there is no, and know that sometimes no can be a loving answer. And I must accept yes, if there is yes, and know that it is given freely without expecting anything in return. Because sometimes people can simply be good people, and sometimes touch can be a gift of mother-love.

[shezbut]

((((jwfb))))))

I am sorry that you're suffering. I hope that it helps to let these thoughts and feelings out now, rather than repress them.

[Yoda]

I am sorry that your mother neglected you.

May you find peace.

[Purple Heart]

I can relate to you I had the exact same experience! My mum was distant and emotionally absent. I think it's becasue her own childhood was met with neglect and without love.

[bebop]

wow! I could have written this one! hon I know how you are feeling. I am here if you need me feel free to pm me.

Originally Posted by jwabf

My mother is hanging on to life, day after day ... but the saddest thing is that her death makes no difference.

I just felt the need to write this:

Craving the affection of a mother, a hand to hold, a shoulder to rest against. Would it have been so hard to love me, Mum? I ask. Would it have been so distasteful? But she looks at me ... through me ... her eyes cold. She is dead to me ... has been for years and years, even when she still breathed deep, arms-wide-lungs-full, clean, cold air.

Her arms were never opened to me, nor her heart. Pity me! No, no pity. Pity is ugly. Just as I was ugly ... at least in her eyes. Was she afraid to look into mine, afraid she might recognise someone not her husband? Not her husband but her confessor! Was that why she stared down, stared away, anywhere but into my desperate-for- love, desperate-to-be-seen eyes?

Was this abuse? No. Not abuse. It was "not love." She offered me only "not love," "not touch," "not kindness," "not tenderness." And now I crave it all with every inch of skin, every ounce of breath...to be loved, touched, gently held. Like a drug, mother-love is what I crave, and I will never, ever taste it. Never, never, never. At least not from her. But there are other mother-lovers, other shoulders, other eyes willing to see me, other hands willing to hold mine.

I must ask, and asking isn't easy, but it is in my power. And I must accept no, if there is no, and know that sometimes no can be a loving answer. And I must accept yes, if there is yes, and know that it is given freely without expecting anything in return. Because sometimes people can simply be good people, and sometimes touch can be a gift of mother-love.

[(JD)]

I think many members here could have written that. Do your best, what will leave you with no or little regrets... now it's about you, not her.

[jwabf]

Thank you all for the responses, indeed the mother-wound is so common and many of you can relate. Today I feel sadness but not for me, for my mum. She was indeed a product of her own childhood, as we all are. Shipped off to a boarding school at 4 years of age, only seeing her parents during school vacations, and then being cared for by nannies. A life of privilege but emotional poverty. She learned little about how to care, show affection, live in a family, and married the first man to show her tenderness. And now, at 83, she loves him still, and recognizes his touch, opening her eyes momentarily, searching for his, and then closing them again.

I wish her peace.

[happy101]

Yes my mother did the same.ignored, neglect and was always angry.WEll all ends well. shelives alone and is very lonely.She looks terrible too.One day she'll die alone too.I have a life with nice people.we will survive and find happiness.people love us , not necessarily a mothers love or mother in law or anything like that BUT a lot of people love us!!!!

Originally Posted by jwabf

My mother is hanging on to life, day after day ... but the saddest thing is that her death makes no difference.

I just felt the need to write this:

Craving the affection of a mother, a hand to hold, a shoulder to rest against. Would it have been so hard to love me, Mum? I ask. Would it have been so distasteful? But she looks at me ... through me ... her eyes cold. She is dead to me ... has been for years and years, even when she still breathed deep, arms-wide-lungs-full, clean, cold air.

Her arms were never opened to me, nor her heart. Pity me! No, no pity. Pity is ugly. Just as I was ugly ... at least in her eyes. Was she afraid to look into mine, afraid she might recognise someone not her husband? Not her husband but her confessor! Was that why she stared down, stared away, anywhere but into my desperate-for- love, desperate-to-be-seen eyes?

Was this abuse? No. Not abuse. It was "not love." She offered me only "not love," "not touch," "not kindness," "not tenderness." And now I crave it all with every inch of skin, every ounce of breath...to be loved, touched, gently held. Like a drug, mother-love is what I crave, and I will never, ever taste it. Never, never, never. At least not from her. But there are other mother-lovers, other shoulders, other eyes willing to see me, other hands willing to hold mine.

I must ask, and asking isn't easy, but it is in my power. And I must accept no, if there is no, and know that sometimes no can be a loving answer. And I must accept yes, if there is yes, and know that it is given freely without expecting anything in return. Because sometimes people can simply be good people, and sometimes touch can be a gift of mother-love.