The deepest light. And the truth to find it.

“You want a baby to feel complete.”

Well fuck.

And as much as I try to be like, yeah, yep that’s true and let’s all move on, I’m brought straight back at this, to stare it in the face.

I had a wonderful channel, from an amazing and talented channeller. It only lasted just over 10 minutes, and it only took a couple of seconds of time for this statement to be said. But this has stuck in my mind since. It’s taken me to some pretty dark places that I totally thought I’d “moved wayyy passed” [<- famous spiritual clique]. This is honestly some of my deepest stuff, right here!

~- ~- ~-

As a teen, my go-to fantasy land was me as mumma.

I was a teen mumma, still going through high school and hormones and homework, but I had a baby.

In my fantasy I also had the loving support of a community and the family of baby-daddy.

I even explored rape during this fantasy, and how it would look, who’d say what, what they’d do, how I would be supported and how I’d heal.

I wrote stories from the viewpoint of this fantasy. So many stories. Because somehow that made it more real.

I can see it now. The houses and landscapes that I’d built in my mind. The characters, the community, the interplay between life and school and sport and parenthood.

I think that every experience I had in the real world was reflected back into this world, and the character, would experience it and process it too. But it would be different for her. She was loved. She was valued. Smart. Caring. Thoughtful. Brave. She had control over her own life. She was SO loved.

~- ~- ~-

I had the daunting realisation that for me, a child … was a physical representation of the actual burden I had carried around. The burden I couldn’t find support for. The burden that deliberately kept the support away.

A violent mother. An abusive mother. A manipulating, hurtful mother. A mother with mental illness.  A narcissistic mother.

I think she still existed within my fantasy, but there was a legion of tough rugby players to protect me. And I think she was sometimes a man, because somehow the abuse is more societally acceptable if it comes from the father.

I think that a baby meant some form of autonomy. That somehow I could make decisions about my own life. That someone saw / needed / loved me. The real me. The me I was before and beyond the constant shaming, physical intimidation and abuse. The me that I was without the fear. So much fear.

And I think that the baby was also some inner most precious part of me. My ‘inner child’. The little girl that I wanted to surround with tough tattooed young men, because somehow they could protect her from the heartache and pain that she’d experience. They would be there when there wasn’t enough food. When all support was removed. When the teachers had just had a call with lies about her and her behaviour and personality perpetuated. They’d be there. And they’d see the truth. They’d know the truth. Without any doubt. And they’d love her anyway. And maybe, just maybe, that love could undo all of the pain. Maybe even protect it from ever happening again.

~- ~- ~-

 

SO maybe that’s what this is.

Finding my way back to that little baby.
Telling her that it will hurt like hell.
And that I’m sorry that I can’t stop it.
No-one can.

But that I see her. I get her. I know her. The real her. And she’s beautiful.

I love you little girl.

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