I love being a mother but sometimes it is so overstimulating to my already taxed nervous system.
During one of my writing exercises today, there was a prompt to think and then write about what it would feel like to witness your own children go through the traumas and tribulations of your own childhood. To journal on all the feelings it brings up.
It was hard. Excruciating at some points. To subject my children (even via imagination) to the kind of treatment I received as I child feels almost too much to bear. Too cruel – for everyone involved.
But it helped. The growing anxiety in me and the sense of impending doom was almost immediately quelled after this exercise.
I never felt like I had a sense of safety as a child. I place of retreat. A place where I could go to and be untouched.
Today, I know that I need to pay attention to my inner emotions but sometimes feel afraid that I will never have enough time to accomplish this.
My body is telling me so much on a basis… cying out. It has held so much sadness. It has felt the weight of bodies 3 times as big as me. It has witnessed more than one person should. It has withstood beatings and traumas and hurts both physically, sexually and emotionally.
But it is here.
Maybe not in one piece. But that’s ok. For now. And maybe always too. Only time will tell.
B 🤍