How Can I Resent That Which Matured Me?

When I look at a road map of my life, I see a pattern. It is not a pattern like on a rug, which is repeated. It is a pattern of seemingly random decisions. But the thread between is learning.

I was born into a bilingual family, of two countries. My Dad was in the SAS, an elite group of soldiers. I am the second child, and was fortunate that we moved in with my grandparents in Germany soon after my birth.

I was unaware for a long time that my sister had already been destroyed by my narcissistic mother. My Oma and Opa were my primary carers so I thrived, emotionally and physically.

When I was five we went to England with Dad’s posting. I pined for my Oma and Opa and struggled to adjust to my mother.

I did well at school. I was bright. I was athletic. I was pretty. Boys were sweet on me.

I realised after some time that an injury was not recovering. That I was limping. Nothing was found to be wrong. My limp persisted and I began to write with my right hand. I was referred to a psychiatrist.

Two years later I underwent four experimental brain surgeries.. Conscious. I was left with akinetic mutism.

Six years it took me to learn to speak clearly. My vocal chords have never recovered.

My mother refused to support me through college. She did for my sister, who became a nurse.

I took a well paid job and went to college one day a week. That is to say I completed a full college course by attending once a week.

Two years later, I attended a uni which had a very positive ethos. I gained confidence, a sense of identity, some goal in life that was not yet defined. On hearing a certain lecture, I knew my path lay there.

I knew my path lay there

So I moved to Southern California to do my Ph.D. What I learned there is priceless.

Do I resent my mother? Oh yes, I did. But no longer, because I had to detach from her at age 15.

I cannot allow resentment to steal my power. To poison my love. To contaminate my relationships.

I cannot be a good mother if I have resentment.

As for my illness, I resent that people have no idea of the trauma I have gone through. I resent that no one knows that I cannot control the volume of my speech; an irritation can at times make my voice rise, depending on other factors. No doctor I meet has ever heard of the disease. I am, as far as I can tell, the only person in the world with this disease and the intervention of brain surgery.

I resent it because I am now suffocating to death. Slowly. But surely. My lungs are impaired. I resent leaving my daughter. I resent not having ensured I have someone to love me until I die.

Unless people read this, they won’t know this. I live outwardly, even though I prefer to introvert. I introvert while planting in and tending my garden. Or while preparing a meal. I read, I watch rugby passionately, I photograph birds, flowers, animals.

My home and garden are my sanctuary, tastefully decorated. I have my loved friends. My Dad died in my arms, my sister too, of sepsis.

Anger, resentments that reside within? No room here.

Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself