In later years, when I had become an adult with my own children, was married to a man that my mother viewed as very successful, I believe that my mother grew ashamed of her actions of having beat me and called me names–her form of punishment.
She observed me guiding and disciplining my and my husband’s children,
This morning we drove our youngest daughter to SFO to board a flight with fellow schoolmates headed for an eight-day stay in Japan.
Driving my SUV along the freeway to the airport, my husband in the passenger seat beside me, and our youngest in the back with her suitcase
My mother was addicted to rage. I could not see that as a child. Only now at fifty-three, am I truly able to step back and grasp a sense of the fear that dwelled within her.
Nothing but intense, immutable and raw fear can provoke such undeniable and untenable rage as that which overtook my mother usurped any possibility of experiencing safety and grounding through life and in the world.
Too many times I saw that rage directed at me, felt the heat of its