I never gave the idea credence before. But maybe, just maybe; if you lose your mom at a young enough age… you eventually give up.
I was a “jump through the hoops and excel” kind of kid… until I didn’t have to be. There was no one keeping me accountable but me (and I have a short attention span.)
A “Mom” is a built in safe guard. She is programmed to question, in depth. She is most often built to have massive amounts of care and compassion. She begs her progeny to question themselves and her.
Without her, you don’t know what you are missing; you only know that something isn’t there… it’s easy to fault ones self with this knowing. For of course we are all prone to put some blame on ourselves, how ever unjust.
So we make up our Mothers in our mind. Idealizing their attributes and sweetness… our commonalities and dissonance. Romanticizing potentials, in hopes of reclamation.
It rarely works, however.
We assign surrogates, and stand-ins. We idolize the relationships our friends have with their mothers. We fantasize being pulled into the fold, and embraced with ultimate unconditional love.
It is a temporary mental satiation.
In reality, no one digs or questions as deep as a true blood mother would. It’s not out of the realm of reality to say that the Motherless feel cheated. Like being born without a blue print and having no regard for architecture.
Haphazard living, not fearing death… that is what it feels to be Motherless.
That is how it feels to be self determined to not harbor safety for life to grow and expand within oneself.
A slow self brutalization, justified by loss; supported by circumstance.
I am an expert.
I’ve asked “What Would Jesus Do?” more often than I have even grazed the idea “What would my Mom Think or Feel?” I’ve conditioned myself to neither care, nor ask. I’ve trained myself out of guilt through time multiplied by repetition.
I feel closer to the idea of Jesus, than I do to the woman who held me in her womb and spent four years with my snarky childishness.
It’s a topic no one wants to question or address, and I am malleable and follow comforts of conversation; only slyly slipping in context when the weather of conversation is suitable. We all suffer from this malady in some way, and I willingly perpetuate it.
Oh insufferable HUMAN! That is me.
The holidays dredge this emotional sludge up, from the recess of my heart… I will listen, and follow, but it’s always sort of brutal.