My mother's name on a small post-it looked absurd on Mr. P.'s chest. As we talked, it kept falling off, as if something (or someone?) didn't want the exercise to continue.
"Look at me," - Mr. P. said - "tell your mother every resentment you might have toward her."
When my mother was dying, I desperately resented her for, what I perceived, the lack of desire to stay alive. How stupid of me! She was, probably, despairing herself at the thought of her life going away and nothing we could do about it!
Anyway, a lady-social worker at mom's hospital suggested, I should really try to work out my problems with mother, or, as that Jewish person put it, I'd be left "with the grizhas in the kishkis". If you don't understand Yiddish, that means: with the intestinal ulcers.
I began to pray, and, as if by magic, the lifetime of unspoken or regularly shouted into each other's faces hurts just disappeared! I didn't forget them, but the bitterness was gone.
Now Mr. P. wanted me to rehash the things, I thought, I laid to rest. Oh, well: "In for a penny, in for a pound!"
I thought, I laid them to rest. A lot of things I did. But some memories I couldn't even touch without the emotional pain paralyzing me for weeks. I never addressed them in hopes of healing. They just continued to fester in the depths of my mind.
As my mouth opened, the words began to tumble out. I still can't tell anyone about my worst traumas, but I talked of being upset that, my mother never taught me to be a wiser woman or what the real relationships demand from a person. She wasn't there for me, when I was on the verge of suicide, and she knew the reason for it too! Instead of offering some comfort or support, all she could do was to accuse me.
Mom, do you hear me? I love you and I want you to acknowledge your own lack of wisdom in raising your daughters! I love you!