Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation: Motherhome

I felt something ... someone ... beckon to me.

I saw a smiling mouth in a pale face. Her eyes were blue, her hair was silver. She felt strong and stern and incredibly beautiful, almost forbidding, but she was smiling and offering me her hand, and when I went to her, she embraced me. I ran to her with all my hunger and need and desire, arms open, rushing, rushing. She held me and offered me nurturing and love.

I was so grateful! I would gladly have done ANYTHING for her, my savior, my rescuer, my love. I stayed near her, as close to her as I could get, although there were other "children" there at her feet, all clamoring for her attention. I tried to climb onto her lap, but I was too big and cumbersome. I saw a glimmer of something in her eyes, but I ignored it. Now I look back, in this mirror memory, and I wonder if it was distaste. At the time, I was desperate for love, desperate and starving, and I didn't see.

She fed us all, but I was still hungry. It felt like... thin white milk to me, and I knew I SHOULD feel satisfied. I saw some of the other children, seeming to be satisfied. WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?? I tried so hard, I tried to swallow. I coughed and choked and managed to swallow the very tiniest trickle. It didn't help the hunger roiling in my belly.

I grew angry, frustrated... angry with her and angry with myself. I had no real memory of the rape. I had no real memory of the shattering and hardening of my throat area. It was all vague and fragmented... a memory of horror in the dark, something to be avoided, some unknown reason that said to keep my needs to myself, for fear of punishment or rejection.

I tried.
I tried not to show how hungry I was.
I tried not to show her my need.
I tried to take in the thin white liquid she offered and I tried to be satisfied with it.

But it was a lie.

Soon she became displeased with me.

I was not the adoring child she needed me to be. I was not taking in her love and adoring her for it. I was not satisfied and content. I was angry and demanding and needy. Never satisfied. But she believed she could teach me, train me, help me to be better. She would parent me, "mother" me, into being a better child.

She taught us all her "wisdom". Her silvery-blue light shone around her as she taught, and her eyes were bright and happy as she spoke of the Father and his greatness. She taught us how to move the negative back and focus on the bright and loving. She taught us how to bask in the light and hold the quick vibrations, while letting go of the slow or dark vibrations.

I failed every lesson.

I couldn't follow her rules and regulations. I couldn't follow her teachings. They felt like restrictions to me. Her love never felt warm to me, and yet... it was all there was, it was all in the world to me.

I pressured myself to be better, to hear better, to comply better.

Submission was her greatest and most important lesson. Submission to the will of the Father was the most important thing, she said. Only by submitting ourselves to his love and wisdom would we find true happiness and glory in the light. The "D" words were to be avoided. Dissension and Disagreement and Doubt. These things drew in Darkness.

We all had special roles in creation, she said, special ways to fulfill God's plan. I waited to know what my special role would be.

She came to me one day and I grew breathless with excitement. Now perhaps I would know who I was, what my place was, if I was important in the world. She said I was. I belonged to her, she said, and I had a very special job, a very special role to play that only I could play.

She drew me near to her and I felt myself being squeezed and then ... spread thin. I grew frightened, not sure what was happening. She offered no explanation, only said over and over that I must relax and surrender my will, cease my resistance, which was resistance to the will of God. She drew me on, like a glove. I felt myself as a sheath, stretching over her hands and arms. I had no understanding of what this meant, my experiences gave me no way to understand this. I was afraid. I tried hard to submit, as she moved this way and that, stretching and clenching her fingers. I could feel her thoughts and feelings, I could feel her joy in feeling me around her. I felt her increased sense of power. Somehow having me on her, wearing me, gave her an increase in power. I felt her planning, looking ahead, to the things she could do.

I did not understand any of this. I felt afraid and I didn't like the feelings she gave me. I didn't like the plans she had, or the feeling that I was supposed to be her garment, for use as she pleased. I knew I was doing wrong, but I couldn't help it -- I resisted. I pulled away. I did not want to let her "put me on". I felt used and valueless, in myself, somehow... though I did not understand it.

It was a struggle, the pulling away. She was strong and big and she ... had been my mother. I had wanted her love. For a long time she was all the love I had in the world. I couldn't help it! My feelings of ... SELF ... had suddenly erupted and the force of my anger gave me strength to pull away from her.

I pulled and pulled and finally ... yanked free.

I stood there looking at her, breathing hard, looking at her shocked face, knowing that I had possibly brought great punishment down on myself by this act. What would she do? I saw smouldering anger in her eyes. I felt her itching to slap me, to grab me and shake me, to tell me again how I belonged to her and how dare I turn against her this way! She grew stiff and pulled away from me.

I began to tremble with fear and memory of the dark and cold and alone and hunger. Fear overcame the anger that had been so strong only a moment ago, fear so strong I would gladly have said yes, yes! and offered myself as glove or shoe or sole of shoe... anything, just please don't be angry, please don't leave me! But I had no time to recant or cower or apologize. She called the Father.

He came swiftly. I felt him glowering down at me, eyebrows knit, hands on his hips. He spent some time with me, giving me his instructions, teaching me the right way to be. His list of rules and restrictions was long and detailed, and I could no more obey him than her. At least she had offered some love and comfort in exchange for obedience. He was never warm. He offered no comfort at all. Some small voice in the back of my brain cried and wept and told me that fathers and mothers were supposed to love, and that love shouldn't feel like this. But another voice alongside it said that the problem was with me, that I was unable to comply, that there was something very wrong with the essence of ME.

They began to see me as a demon child. I could feel it in their thoughts. But Father had more important things to do, and so he returned me to the care of White Mother.

She tried to teach me, for a while longer. She tried to help me correct the error of my ways. And I tried to submit. I tried to surrender my will to her and the Father. I tried to let her put me on and use me as she wanted. I tried to suppress the anger and outrage and burning, roiling hunger that seethed inside me. But the love and comfort she offered grew less and less. She grew more and more cold to me. And my rage grew stronger and stronger. I began to erupt in tantrums and fits that I couldn't remember afterwards, except that I would come awake to myself and see her staring at me coldly, disapprovingly, angrily.

She pulled back from me. Farther and farther back. Until, finally, I couldn't control myself at all. Terror of the barely remembered void was driving me mad. Terror of cold and alone and hunger was stirring me into a frenzy. I was frantic to keep her love, to gain Father's good graces, so frantic and so insane, and my rage mixed in with the terror, and the two were stirred together by hopelessness and despair and something else, something frozen and deadly that I didn't recognize. Something that whispered to me in silent moments, provoking me, poking at my fear and anger and causing my eruptions to increase.

I became a dirvish of insanity and outbursts and I'm sure they thought then that I was indeed a demon child.

The last thing I remember of her was cold hard eyes in her white face, silver hair flowing back from her face. There was some pity in that face, but no regret for what she was about to do. The pity was for me, that I was unable to be what I should have been. That my rebelliousness and perversity was causing this fate. I had chosen my own course, in their eyes.

I was thrown out, and as the darkness enveloped me, I went blank. Shattered again and again. Broke.

Next.... The Golden Mother

These Stories:

	Needy Baby
	The Pounding
	The White Mother
	The Golden Mother

	cyQuest searching for wholeness
		\| Home \| Our Pathway Home \| Musings \| Library \| Art Gallery \| \| Links \| FAQ \| What's New \| Site Map \| Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation