December 30, 2000

i've spent the afternoon indulging in a lot of quiet reflection.  Perhaps it's a result of what i call 'holiday lag' (as opposed to jet lag) or just a general need to allow my mind to drift for awhile.  So many things are going on right now - including the fact that the tenant might be moving out - which will involve some decision making with regard to my work choices (another topic for later on but something that's been racing through my brain none the less.)

     But i digress again.  

     Christmas was it's own brand of wonderfulness.  Lots of people crammed into the world's tiniest space made for some interesting arrangements and a few times Himself and i escaped to the bedroom to bury ourselves in books.  But i wouldn't have traded a moment of any of it.  i was thoroughly spoiled by Master as well, since He not only did all the holiday cooking, but also gave me the book "Memoirs of a Geisha" and a 15-month membership to my favourite gym!  That i certainly didn't expect.  (i'm stalling until after January 1 before going though - i'm getting in the last bit of food/beverage indulgences i can)

     One of the moments during the week that has lingered with me though, was when Master opened His gift from His daughter.  With only a minimal amount of guidance from me, she had put together an album of herself for Him. We'd snuck a few items out of the house for her to add to it and i'd been living in fear that He would notice!

     i watched carefully as He opened the gift (we were all opening things at the same time) and i'm so glad that i did.  The look on His face - a soft smile and a pleased gentleness in His eyes - said so much.  He turned each page slowly, in a languid, caressing manner and i couldn't help smiling myself as i watched Him.  i gently nudged His daughter so she'd be able to see as well and then there was the Father/daughter hug to enjoy.

     Those are the moments that make a family holiday special.  

     So i spent part of my afternoon going through a box of photographs my sister brought with her when visiting the other day.  They were taken by my mother over the years -  and a large number of them were taken after my father died, when she was around me more.

     And a lot of them were of me.  

     She was incredibly jealous of me for the most part - yet those photos say something different.  There was picture after picture of me - dressed up, in my pyjamas, cooking - a sort of pictorial documentary of my day to day life.  It felt like i was looking at something that a fan who follows their favourite star around would do.  Almost an obsession.  i got a sense that maybe she was proud of me, or was it merely that she was proud of creating me?  

     The pictures hurt in their own way.  Each one reminded me of emotional parts of my life.  The picture of my grade eight graduation when i was kneeling beside my father - i remember that as a time of hope, yet it was also when he started touching me more aggressively and i eventually withdrew into a shell when he was around.

     Later pictures of my first real boyfriend and pictures of my brother's wedding, pictures of my own wedding and how i cried that day.  i knew part of why i was marrying was to escape the reality of the dysfunctional life i'd been brought up in.  

     Better ones - pictures of my babies - and the fact that my son was my mother's favourite even more apparent by the sheer number of photos.  She was like that though.  My older brother's daughter was the first favourite, at the expense of her sister - then my son stepped into the line.  Both were later replaced by my sister's daughter.  But what about her other grandchildren?  i felt the resentment in my memories as i worked through the stack of pictures.

      Then there were piles and piles of photos taken after dad died.  And so many of them are of me.  But why?  It suggests that she loved me but because of the hurtful side of her that i knew she possessed it causes me to think my original thought and that is that it was merely a selfish pride in creating me.

      How many times did she remind me that if it weren't for her, i wouldn't even be here?  Was that necessary?  After each tiny accomplishment i made i would hear those words and it undermined every i strived for.  Yet i wonder if she really understood that fact or was just so caught up in feeling her own inadequacies that she didn't understand the significance of what she was saying.

     How do i reconcile the testimonial of those pictures - of the hint that perhaps she loved me, even in an obsessed way - with the memory of the woman who used to drag me out of my bed in the middle of the night and beat me?

     When do i find peace in this? i'm better - i'm finding a calmness within myself that i didn't know i could have - but i'm beginning to think some wounds are going to be like a scar.  They fade, but they don't ever leave.