Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation: Motherhome

It has been a very long time since I was cast out of the White Mother's embrace. For a long time, I didn't remember her. I didn't remember these events until recently. It wasn't until the Golden Mother found me and held me that I could finally feel safe and cry and begin to remember these long-ago things.

In the in-between years...

I hated all mothers.

The rejection and betrayal I felt at the hands of the White Mother were so overwhelming and created such a bitterness in me, I believed that mother-ness was a lie.

I hated all fathers too.

I trusted no one.

I hated all those who asked for submission or obedience.

I hated all those who gave subservience or worship. I scoffed and scorned and thought them foolish and naive.

I lived many lives. I was many times a mother, and many times a child, but never did I allow myself to open or trust. Authority figures of any kind were my enemy, even though there were many lifetimes when the war was in secret and I wore the submissive face of docile wife or church-goer.

My heart was shut. My love was non-existent, rigid, ungiving. My secret hunger burned in my belly, I was ever the Needy Baby, but for fear of punishment, I hid it well. I learned how to play the different games and survive. But survival was all it was. Living was pain, lack, want. With each life, I fragmented again and again, becoming less and less conscious and able to sustain myself. Some of my fragments live the barest of lives, some dying as infants, some living on but always hungry, always scratching out a meager existence.

Many of us are addicts. Addiction is common with us. Because our throats are frozen shut, we can never take in enough ... of anything. Food, alcohol, drugs, sex, power... we are easily drawn to those things in an attempt to feed our starving lower chakras, especially those things which will deaden the mind, and still the aching in our hearts and throats. But most of us do not remember the past enough to understand why. Death by overdose is quite common.

Needy Baby in each fragment lives on. Starving, and yet unable to take any light or love in.

In this life, this current bit of life, I have surfaced and begun to heal. Me, Needy Baby, I came up and began to try to trust. First I cried fear and distrust. I had one small experience of learning to trust, with our mother in this life, and for that I will always be grateful. She showed me how it could be, how it should be.

I travelled down a long hard road, into the depths of motherbody pain. I am there still. I have been swimming in the deepest darkest most dense part of this ocean, in the places where death lurks, where nothingness is the norm, where despair makes limbs heavy and hopelessness sings its song to lure and hypnotize. I have crashed headlong into the darkdeath, into the hatred pounded into me, into us. I have pulled in bits and pieces of me, bits that have been lost in the void, bits that have the memories of all these things, and as I cry their pain, I remember. The horror of all this is ... so horrible.

I have hated the empty nothings that have been channeled on other sites.

I have hated the empty meaningless words from some supposed "mother" and "father", who speak such large grand platitudes and have no real help for our healing. At least, not for my healing.

I didn't know that some of my rage was because of my experience with the White Mother. I didn't remember it. I only felt hatred, and fear, and distrust. I couldn't understand why others, others that I loved, seemed to take in this "mother" as if she was really loving and true. I told myself the problem was me. And so I cried. And cried. And cried. Rage and self-blame and distrust and fear. Rage and blame and distrust and fear.

And I reached a place of old old old memory where I felt my mouth go wide and wider and wider and great terror engulfed me and I screamed "HELP ME!!!!!!!"

It was there that she found me, the Golden Mother.

Large, larger than me, and I know myself to be huge in my Needy Baby body. She cut through the swath of confusion. I watched her come on, gliding through the crowds of people and noise, not making a fuss, just making her way through to me. Never taking her eyes off me. Large and golden, she was, gently golden. Warm. Richly glowing. On she came, heedless of anyone between us. Bearing down on me, coming closer, relentless. She found me there, and scooped me up, picked me up off the floor and nestled me in her golden arms. She held me against her golden breast. She breathed in my ear, "I'm here, I've found you, I'm here."

I felt as if I could breathe for the first time in ... ever.

And I cried. And raged. "Where have you been? Why did you leave me alone for so long?"

And then I feared that my rage would drive her away. But it didn't. She held me. She held me and promised not to leave ever again, never again, NEVER.

And I cried. And raged. And clung to her.

And she held me tight.

The Golden Mother doesn't ask me to kneel or worship, thank god. She never uses the word "submit" or "surrender". I was so afraid that she would. I was so afraid that I was wrong all this time, to fight against those who demand worship. I was afraid that the White Mother was the true mother, I was afraid that my right place in creation was ... in the void, or as slave.

But Golden Mother relieved my fears.

She gives me no rules. She gives me no teachings. She tells me she cannot save me, and she cannot take my burden from me. But, she says, she will listen to me cry. She will hold me when I am afraid and need to cling to her, and she will never leave me alone. She feeds me, and her milk is rich and warm and sweet. She says it is also God's light, and that he has changed. She says it is thin and harsh though, until she takes it and enriches it with her golden heart, and then ... and then when she feeds me, I feel it warming and softening my throat and trickling down to my heart. I feel safe in her arms, as she feeds me, knowing that when I get bigger, when I am able to stand up, she will let me. She will not require me to stay small. She will not require me to worship her. She will let me be ... myself.

Because I feel safe in this, I am able to BE small with her. I am able to let myself sink fully into the most terrifying and helpless of my memories, and the pain I cry is so awful. Because I feel safe in her arms at last, I could remember the throat rape. I could remember the White Mother. I am slowly remembering. Because I have Golden Mother now, I can remember it all. Not all at once. It takes so many tears to heal just one of these memories. So we go slow. And that's ok with her.

I relive the pain of the White Mother. I remember how I loved her. I remember how much I wanted her love and approval. I ache with my own failure, with her rejection, with the confusion and tanglement she made of my heart. I hate you, White Mother. I will never ever put myself in your hands again. You are not trustworthy, and you hurt me, you hurt the children in your care. I hate you. I don't know who you are. I don't know if you are an angel in mother's garb, or an ancient one, or a part of the mother's spirit. You were more like spirit than mother to me. White and silver and blue. Who are you? You were big and wise and yes, you offered love, but it was not for free, and I couldn't do enough or right enough to earn it. I'm still aching in my heart, my child's heart that wanted you and needed you so badly. How much it hurts.

I turn to Golden Mother now and she holds me while I cry this pain.
Hold me, momma, hold me. Please don't hate me. Please don't ever leave me.

This love is warm. Golden. Rich and warm. I am enveloped in softness that rocks and holds me and soothes my burns and aches. Here I am safe. Here I can cry a million years.

These Stories:

	Needy Baby
	The Pounding
	The White Mother
	The Golden Mother

	cyQuest searching for wholeness
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