Of Narrative, Scenes of a Life, and Brimming With Fear …

In that a memoir, and the structure of any narrative, consists of scenes, I must write various scenes of my life, those that most depict my suffering for which I offer forgiveness and hold compassion for my mother.

This is hard.

Not simply because I am writing of my mother, and about myself. The challenge lies in my lack of certainty, the ambiguity of my mother’s actions, and thus my ambivalence.

Perhaps what I see and remember is not the way events actually unfolded. Perhaps my child self views things immaturely. Perhaps I have not matured to the point of understanding the completeness of my mother’s intent.

And yet there remain my emotions, the feelings of loss and emptiness, questioning, “Why have me if you could not love me?” I asked that one time of my mother and she slapped me.

Why do I declare the emotional quality of my life so bad? Others had suffered worse.

Yes. And I fear they were able to endure underpinned and supported by their mother’s love, something with which I am not quite familiar.

The scenes of my life are not pretty, at least not the ones that come to mind.

While praying this morning I recollected a moment in time that left me filled with shame.

I was a girl scout, having earned all my badges. The ceremony wherein I would present them took place one night at my church.

The girls who were scouts along with me were jealous and filled with envy. Little did they know what I had to endure.

In many ways they reminded me much of my mother.

I entered the social hall that evening filled with the other scouts and their mothers, scared and afraid. Brimming with fear, I was crying.

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