Mummy issues

When I was younger I used to have a go at my parents for how they brought me up.

I would criticize them for not making me fit in more.

I think this is a common thing with us humans.

It takes many guises but all the forms it takes share a common theme. You are blaming someone for you.

You are saying that because your parents did this you’re a fuck up.

That because you didn’t have parents you’re a fuck up.

That because this person did this horrible thing you are a fuck up.

So you have a go at these people or parents. You’re angry at them.

But say you get what you think you want.

You have a go at them and they cry. They get down on their knees and say “sorry”.

What good is that to You? You’re still a fuck up right?

All of us can do some things and can’t do other things. Every one of us knows what we should do and to varying degrees don’t do it.

This is universal and this is why you think you’re a fuck up.

Everyone reacts to stimuli differently. A thing a parent does to one child that makes them happy could traumatize another.

Human interaction is a game of roulette.

All that we are doing when we blame other people for ourselves is avoiding the issue.

You don’t like yourself. That is the problem. You think you are a badly made human being.

Even if this is true what good is an apology? After all it would just be someone else agreeing with your self loathing. “I’m sorry I fucked you up.” Is just “You’re a fuck up” wearing a smiling mask.

Why do you think you’re a fuck up?

According to whom?

Where did you get your standards from? Do you even know?

Don’t you see that as long as you operate within this framework you will never stop hating yourself?

That even if you manage to be who you think you should be there will be that little voice at the back of your head that says “You’re a fake.”

Advertisements

Easy

I lived my life
Trying to control
But really

 
it wasn’t easy;
I struggled and strived
denied myself my…
Self. Tried to be…
someone else.

 
I didn’t know it
but the truth is
that laziness
is the way to
the truest self
expression.

 
The easiest path
is the easiest path
because
you want to walk it.

 
Everywhere
people strive
to be what they are not.

 
They live a lie of strife
a life of effort
for no reward.
No-one claps
there is no applause
and if there was
so what?

 
what can I do with applause?

 
This need we have
to convince people
to proove ourselves right
is nothing but a
struggle to hand over
our freedom to
come under
dominion.

 
See when you see
that seeing is a slow
slow journey to
clarity,

 
That
All people walk it
few of them know it
and eventually
everyone knows this.

 
If only for the moment
when your grandma dies
and leaves a wound and
you know, you
really know that
what matters doesn’t matter
that these standards
don’t matter!

 
That mattering can
smatter itself
scatologically
across the cistern.

 
That what “matters”
has placed a barrier
between me and you
between me and my family
because I fail
I try and I fail
To live up to the
Standard.

 
I feel guilt
that I’m not
what they admire
what they respect.

 
And this guilt
with downcast eyes
and stammering lips
weaves a disguise
before our very eyes
that hides from us both
the ones we want to know.

 
Not secretly
but openly
a family is fed upon
by a guilt
that restrains the lips
from uttering trivialities
and we watch
powerlessly
as our loved ones
disappear into
anonymity.

 
But death comes
and it shows us
through the tears
in the heart of the wound
that nothing matters
like we think it matters.

 
That my flaws are
just excuses for conversation
just things to say, admit
not to hide and justify.

 
That by being me
unabashedly
without restraint
is the way into the bosom of my family
because we’re all of one stock,
one blood, one lineage
let us compare notes
not give advice.

 
Let us come together
find what we have in common
uncover the stutters
and how we have dealt with them;
The social dis-ease
the low self-esteem
that doesn’t go
however we seem.

 
For me personally
it surrounds woman.
I hanker
for the female
anchor.

 
The feisty female
who
unbidden
solicits my advances;
but I stay back
because
In my eyes
I’m despised.

 
How could a woman
with hips and thighs
ever want to stare into these eyes?

 
I know,
I know,
I could wear a disguise
of adidas
and live a life
of work and strife
but that would
lead to a ball and chain
not a woman who’s mine
and who wants me.

 
Me!
Not some fiction
I create just to get
a whiff of fanny.

I’m Feeling Broody

Today I was laying in bed, having my post-work nap. In that time before you are asleep I was day-dreaming about bringing up kids.

I can see you’re laughing.

“What’s a man doing being broody; that’s what women do. He must be some kind of effete wanker!”

But that’s silly social prejudice for you; trying to make us stick to artificial roles.

In my opinion all that makes a woman a woman is a fanny and boobies and all that makes a man a man is a winky and balls.

Not any of this “Men do sports and act hard” and “Women like shopping and dainty things” crap that society would have us munching down like gone off defecatory produce (Yes I mean gone off shit).

What triggered the daydream was a memory of when I jumped off a swing and sprained my ankle.

Thus starts the rendition:

“Owww!” My son screamed in pain as he landed badly.

– It could be a daughter; but I didn’t choose the gender of my child in the daydream –

I wandered over calmly because I think by panicking you condition your child to see pain as something to panic about.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“My foot hurts daddy!” he said.

    • Oh I dream of the day I hear that word “daddy” said to me –

“How do you know it hurts?” I asked.

“Because it does!” he exclaimed.

“Now that’s not answering the question. What does it feel like?” I asked

“It’s throbbing and when I move it: it stings” he said.

“Do you know what pain is for?” I asked.

“No” He replied. By now he’s calm because I’m calm.

“It’s to tell us that something is damaged or broken.” I said picking up a stick. “Imagine this is a walking stick” I said snapping it over my knee.

Crack!

“What would that “crack!” tell you?” I asked

“That it’s broken” He replied precociously.

“Yes! It would also tell you to examine the stick and start you on the path to figuring out how to fix it.”

“Do you know what you should do with pain?” I asked.

“No” He replied

“Watch it” I said.

He looked down with his eyes.

“Not with the eyes you see with; with your attention. Pay attention to the pain. Don’t try to avoid it because that doesn’t make it go away. Find out what it is telling you.” I said.

“Now let’s find out if you have to go to the hospital. Remember pay attention to the feeling in your foot as I do what I’m about to do” I said.

“Is it going to hurt?” He asked.

“Probably; but hopefully only a little.” I said as I gently at first and then more vigorously – but not too vigorously – began to move his foot with my hands.

“How much does it hurt?” I asked.

“A bit when it’s still. Only a little bit more when you move it.” My son replied.

“Then you’re OK. I’ll carry you home. You might limp for a day or two but you’ll be jumping off swings in no time.” I said, “Remember pain is your friend because it tells you when your body is damaged. From the information pain gives you can figure out whether or not you have to do anything to fix it. In this case I prescribe a couple of days resting your foot, playing on your computer and plenty of ice-cream.”

My son beamed at me and said “Cheers Dad!”