A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I cannot think of a moment in my life 

when I did not love you.

More importantly, neither can I think

of a moment when I doubted

your love for me. 

This is not a rose-tinted view – 

I remember well

yelling

fighting

thinking you were unfair

thinking you didn’t understand

I remember fear

fear of your anger

fear of your disappointment

fear that tonight you really wouldn’t come back

(and wondering who would find your body, 

and how you’d finally do it)

But through the ebb and flow

of life and learning

I remember also

one constant always,

one who loved even when no one else did,

one place I could always call home

even when there was no comfort in my own skin

All I ever wanted was your happiness,

and perhaps you gave me too much power

too much responsibility

letting my behaviour

my achievements

be a foundation stone for your sanity,

a precarious, fragile, naive foundation stone

for a building that had long since fallen apart.

And we could fight

over which of us would be the first to say

that we both knew you were human

with normal human imperfections

and yet

as the pedestal holding you up

I could vocalise nothing against you

for fear that we would both lose our balance.

But now, four years without you, 

exploring this labyrinth of grief

and memories, missing you

with a pain so real it is physical,

loving you across dimensions 

of space and time

that even physics cannot describe,

with a peaceful certainty 

that you are in the better place, 

I see that what you would have thought

cannot be the same as what you now think

with the privileged wisdom

of one who has read the book

and discussed it at lengths with the author

over a cup of tea

that is too weak.

And I affirm

that you loved me and love me still,

that you both wanted the best for me

and yet did not always know what that was,

that you both did the best you could

with your knowledge

your resources

and yet

your best

was not always the best. 

And I see now that I can both laud your love and your efforts

and acknowledge your errors 

and the wounds that you caused in me

both directly and indirectly

and that this does not make either of our loves any less. 

I remember you telling me

multiple times

that the cycle of trauma

within your family

passed on through generations

must stop with me,

but it is only now that I start to understand.

I’m healing, Mum.

It’s fucking painful, and fucking terrifying, to be honest. 

I don’t know what I’m doing,

and sometimes I cry because I wish

we could sit and talk about it,

and I could get your advice,

but if I’m honest,

I realise I couldn’t do this

until after you left,

because I couldn’t have told you everything. 

Sure, sometimes we’d get drunk together

and I would say more than I intended to,

but everything through a filter,

trying desperately not to let you be hurt.

And if you were here now,

I wouldn’t be missing you,

but I’d still be in pain

from the eggshells I’d walk on

from fear of opprobrium.

These things also can both be true:

the sharp stabbing grief of missing you 

can reside in my heart

alongside a newfound relief

a freedom

to discover myself

to heal myself

and to break that cycle,

not because it was something you wanted from me, 

but because my precious little people

deserve better.