Iceberg

I had a counselling session today.  I needed it so badly.  The weight and stress of it all was getting to me.  I don't know why it builds so much, why I can't release it on my own.  The minute I walk into that room, a dam breaks.  I crumble.  I don't know what it is about that room, but I give myself permission there to fall apart.  I feel so good after.  So much lighter.  Where there was darkness forming, warm light takes over.  Relief.

After talking with my counsellor, I feel like I am part of the rest of the world.  The world where I am not expected to accept abuse as a part of my relationship with my mom.  Where I am not punished for disappointing her.  Where I don't live in the house I grew up in.  Between sessions, I seem to always go back to the mind that still lives under that roof.  Where that stuff is normal and where I am absolutely not allowed to protect myself, my husband and my daughter from that relationship.  Even while I am doing it, I don't feel allowed.  I feel like I am breaking a very, very big rule and I'm terrified of the consequences.

My counsellor asked me to hold onto the image of an iceberg.  On top of the water is what my mom shows to the world.  Her kindness, her generosity, her love.  Beneath the water is what I know is there.  The parts of her that have hurt me for decades and that others don't see.  She wants me to find a ritual, a way to tap into the kind of release I get in her office.  I don't know how to build a ritual around the iceberg.   I don't know where it would go.  I don't want to imagine her sinking.  I can't lift it out of the water, not even in my mind.  I don't want to expose her.  I just want to accept myself for doing this.  I want to accept that this is happening at all.  It is so hard to accept that she will always hurt me.  If I let her back in, she will hurt me.  She will hurt my family.  The dysfunction of that relationship will hurt Ivy.  There is a good chance she will hurt Ivy by doing to her all the things she doesn't understand hurt me as she grows up.   I am having such a hard time accepting that I may never be able to have her in my life.  I may never laugh with her on the porch at the lake.  I will likely never make her smile again.  Never pick her spirits up again.  Never go shopping with her again.   I may never see her play with Ivy again.  She loves her so much.  It all seems so cruel.  Of me.  Of life.  Of my mom.

I've been so afraid of it.  Of saying it.  Saying what I miss.  Saying what I want back.  Saying what I am afraid of never having again.  What I am afraid of my mom never having again.  That's why I don't let it out on my own.  I am too scared to go there on my own.  No one is sitting in a chair right in front of me pulling a curtain away from a window and letting light in.  No one is telling me that it's okay.  But I need to learn to do that for myself.  Find a way to be kind to myself through it.  I have not been kind to myself.  I have taken over my mom's role.  I have told myself how much I am letting her down.  After all she's done.  After all she's been through.  If I am going to keep her out of my life, I can't take over the voice I am trying to find shelter from.

Okay.  Kindness.  Warm light on what hurts rather than punishing thoughts.  I did it once, I can do it again.  Stop treating myself like I am not worthy of a peaceful life.  Stop believing I owe it to her to let her hurt me.  Stop believing that what is above water on the iceberg means I need to be so deeply affected by what is below the surface.   Maybe I need to set myself free from that iceberg.  Stand on solid ground and accept that she will drift.  That she could sink.  That I can't save her.  The ocean will always be bigger than me.

It feels like giving up on her.  It feels so incredibly sad..  Sad is too small a word.

It is an iceberg sinking.  It is the deafening thunder of ice breaking on the river.  It is my heart letting go.  Just a little, and that is more than enough for today..