One of those nights where I have slept earlier on the sofa and then having gone to bed after midnight have lain in bed awake since. Contemplating life, the universe and everything, one thing leads to another and here I am crying. Hot salty tears that flow effortlessly and I wonder why am I crying? About events and situations that happened thirty to thirty-five years ago it seems utterly ridiculous. All whilst the steady, deep breaths of darling Mr Doris sleeping alongside.
It doesn't feel as if I want to be pitied or felt sorry for. It is not that I want to be a child again - heaven forbid I should go back to that purgatory. Maybe it is an escape mechanism for all the things not going right just now I can fall back into blaming my past. But I do not think it is that either, especially at a time I have realised I need to let go once again. Perhaps it is the over-indulgence in the red wine earlier in the evening but I feel as if I have slept it off already.
A week or so ago a crazy idea flashed across my mind that perhaps I wanted to confront my parents and to give them the opportunity to say sorry. To give them the chance to clear the air before any of us shuffle from this mortal coil. I don't for one moment think they are actually aware of the pain I carry from my mother's physical and mental blows (as a result of her own screwed up childhood) and from my father's negligence and complicity. Instead I organise family outings and treat them with extraordinary kindness and tolerance, even though I say it myself.
Back in the 1980s I came to a certain peace with my past for a while. At a time when I learned inside myself to forgive and let go although even then I felt a strong forgiveness I found it very hard to forget. I also realised nothing was to be gained from talking over the past with my parents: my mother would just deny it.
Which drives me back again to wondering why on earth should crummy events from all those years have such an impact now. I feel pathetic as a result. Like I should just pull myself together and move on. Or maybe I should face the fear and bring it out and let my parents in on it. If I have screwed up big time with my children I would rather they gave me the chance to fix it. But then I am really mainly sane. My mother is a little child inside. Not a child I could love but an egotistical little bitch who is mean, brutal and demanding. Sure she has a very kind side in an over-bearing "what-I-give-must-ultimately-be-paid-back" kind of way but nothing endearing to me. She wants to be loved and that is probably all she ever wanted. But she has had so many chances and so many lovely people in her life who have tried to show her love and friendship and if she blows it then that is her path.
Meanwhile I have known love and am loved. So why do the ghosts of the past still torment and affect me on occasion. What am I supposed to learn from all this - I am sure there must be a reason but I never seem to be able to put a finger on what it is. One day the answer will come from within. Thankfully writing it down here my eyes are now dry and perhaps sleep will wrap me in warm slumbers.