Over the last year, I have finally been slipping into motherhood proper, the term feeling less awkward, my heart feeling surer about itself, aware of my child and attuned in a way that I had struggled to achieve for years.
It is a relief to feel this; I no longer feel fraudulent when declaring my maternal relationship to the bright-eyed, startlingly sarcastic girl whom most assume to be my younger sister.
And yet.
And yet, these days, even as I am more fiercely dedicated to doing motherhood right, even as I feel the tug of her flesh and blood to my own, I struggle.
I struggle with my own memories, my own shame, with the panic and fear and pain that swamped the earliest days of her existence and lasted for years later, clouding my heart and my mind.
I flinch at the memories of my own selfishness, of the overwhelming loss of myself, of the strangeness that I felt between her tiny body and my own. I feel sick, often, remembering the twisting of my womb, of how horrified I was at what grew within me. I feel even more sick remembering who I was after she was born, of my weakness, of the tears she wiped away with toddler hands, of the emptiness I felt in place of maternal instinct, of my sharp words borne of frustration at her very existence.
I hate remembering my own thoughtlessness, and worse still, the lack of remembrance of most of her earliest years. I cannot remember the day she first called out for me clearly, or what she looked like fresh out of the bath. I look through pictures of her, often, and desperately grasp at wisps of recollection, unsure of what is true maternal memory and what is a clumsily constructed history.
I am ashamed of who I was, of whom I have been for so long.
It is hard not to want to undo it all, to take it all back, to create a better story of motherhood than the lopsided, rough pieces I hold within me now.
She deserves better, I tell myself, but uneasily, I wonder if I mean that *I* deserved better. I don't know if I will ever know the real answer to either thought.
For now, I try to swallow back the shards of past memories, and curl my fingers around the softer memories that I have created today.
It is a relief to feel this; I no longer feel fraudulent when declaring my maternal relationship to the bright-eyed, startlingly sarcastic girl whom most assume to be my younger sister.
And yet.
And yet, these days, even as I am more fiercely dedicated to doing motherhood right, even as I feel the tug of her flesh and blood to my own, I struggle.
I struggle with my own memories, my own shame, with the panic and fear and pain that swamped the earliest days of her existence and lasted for years later, clouding my heart and my mind.
I flinch at the memories of my own selfishness, of the overwhelming loss of myself, of the strangeness that I felt between her tiny body and my own. I feel sick, often, remembering the twisting of my womb, of how horrified I was at what grew within me. I feel even more sick remembering who I was after she was born, of my weakness, of the tears she wiped away with toddler hands, of the emptiness I felt in place of maternal instinct, of my sharp words borne of frustration at her very existence.
I hate remembering my own thoughtlessness, and worse still, the lack of remembrance of most of her earliest years. I cannot remember the day she first called out for me clearly, or what she looked like fresh out of the bath. I look through pictures of her, often, and desperately grasp at wisps of recollection, unsure of what is true maternal memory and what is a clumsily constructed history.
I am ashamed of who I was, of whom I have been for so long.
It is hard not to want to undo it all, to take it all back, to create a better story of motherhood than the lopsided, rough pieces I hold within me now.
She deserves better, I tell myself, but uneasily, I wonder if I mean that *I* deserved better. I don't know if I will ever know the real answer to either thought.
For now, I try to swallow back the shards of past memories, and curl my fingers around the softer memories that I have created today.
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