How my own self-love journey allowed me to heal from hating Dead Mom…

When I think about it I realize that I have spent the majority of my life vehemently hating my (now dead) mom.

It’s been a hot minute since I have sat down and let words come to life. I think it’s time to give credit where credit is due.

I need to talk about my relationship with Dead mom.

My little soul has done this lovely thing where it’s locked up things in a vault and gives me occasional access to memories.

I have zero memories of a loving nature that have to do with my dead mom.

From as far back as I can remember my Grandma Betty (aka Neen) raised most of us kids. She was the source of any maternal love I ever received as a child.

Dead mom was absent physically and emotionally.

I spent weeks at friends houses growing up. I pretended in my soul I think that I was always part of their families.

It was a coping/numbing mechanism for me to disassociate from her, before I got into the real drugs and numbing in adolescence.

I read something in a book the other day and completely related to it.

“Dear God, I love my family but I wonder if you tried out anyone else before you sent me to them.”

I’m not even really sure why my Dead mom procreated. I was certain that she was incapable of feeling.

But I was wrong.

She was just incapable of feeling towards us kids.

I had older siblings that eventually went and lived with their dad and our Grandma Betty.

But I was the (un)lucky pawn in her game of life to play house and act like a happy family with my stepdad.

Their relationship was….

Um.

Tenacious and passionate and all things inappropriate for raising a child.

As I reflect back I am able to see the reason she did some of the things that did. It was her very own personal search for love and acceptance.

But she was looking in all the wrong places.

All of our enlightened, spiritual teachers, God and everyone instructs us to turn within to find home, love, acceptance and wisdom.

I’m afraid in her case, even she was afraid to look within for fear of what was lurking in that domain.

It was from a very early age that it became apparent that us kids were not a priority. I also learned really young that I was going to be shoved aside when the next best thing came along.

I went on to be in relationships that mimicked that same lack of love, lack of feeling valued or worthy, and getting abandoned, tossed aside and replaced.

Growing up she never let me see my real dad. That did a number on me also. It felt like even he didn’t want me.

There must be something wrong with me if my own birth mother didn’t love me and always had something better to do and my dad didn’t want to spend time with me.

I learned later he didn’t have much say.

There’s a special place in hell for women who play custody games with their children and exes.

I am a product of where kids being in their mothers custody was NOT in the best interest of the child.

I’m a firm believer that there needs to be better balance in that arena. I see it everyday and it makes me ill.

Mother’s with an inability to love, but just play the part are so incredibly damaging to a child’s soul.

The tumultuous relationship that was her marriage taught me how to be alone and feel safe that way. I never wanted to be near them and their hostile love environment.

From the moment I got home from school till the absolute last possible second I was out on my little dirt bike with my German Shepard out in the country where we lived and I didn’t need people.

The ones I did have left me feeling deflated and disappointed so I learned to be my own best friend young.

I was always so embarrassed or scared to have friends over because I never knew what fight would ensue or what type of crazy train Dead mom would be on.

So I pretty much isolated myself.

My first love was basketball and pretty much the only connection I had with my stepdad. That was the only thing I really had to love.

Both him and dead mom were on a journey to find love no matter who was forsaken for the cause.

But even then Dead mom always made me feel like a burden or nuisance having to go to games.

Which was where the seed was born for me to feel like burden and nuisance in adulthood as well.

I used to dread having to ask for help or favors because of this. It was much later in life that I learned there is a whole world of peoples out there that actually have feelings and love helping others out.

That was simply not what I was used to.

Things really went south when my oldest niece was born. Until then I was the baby of the family.

I knew I could get love from Grandma Betty. And she was my only source of it.

I recall my niece spending a shit ton of time with us. It makes me cringe to say this or even write it out loud but I watched as my dead mom would parade my baby niece around in her little carrier with my stepdad as she acted like my niece was their child.

And I was tossed aside like a used sock.

I was 12 when my niece was born and that was a turning point for me.

I hate to even admit this but I hated my niece. She was so readily getting the love and affection that I yearned so terribly for.

It made me wonder even further what was wrong with me.

It built a system of belief that I was unworthy of love or positive attention.

So what does one do when that happens to them? Well, in my case I started going to find love and affection in other places.

And it didn’t necessarily mean a person. I dove face first into experimenting with Booze first, then every drug I could get my adolescent little hands on.

By the time the whole faking my nieces as their own baby thing came along I was engulfed in full fledged seething, tenacious hatred to the women I had to call mom.

I hated the joy she had in her face when she would be handling my niece with my stepdad in the living room while I was virtually unseen.

Looking back I realized that my poor body, heart and soul were riddled with so much hate it should have made me ill.

I started going down hill in a big way. I ended up quitting basketball for drugs.

I was completely disgusted and disrespectful to dead mom because I couldn’t stand the sight of her.

We fought terrible.

Sometimes the fights would end violently.

I fucking HATED HER GUTS.

Even typing this I feel some of that latent burn.

I ended up getting kicked out when I was almost 17 I think. She came home from going out to eat with my stepdad and caught me and some friends who drove over playing a drinking game I learned from watching HER and her friend play one time.

You use an ice tray and try and get a quarter in a hole in the tray. The further away you got the quarter in you got to give away that many drinks from the ice cube tray but you had to use a small straw to suck the booze out.

She caught us and I think she seen the cut off straw and thought we were doing blow (cocaine). Which we weren’t.

That time anyway. Besides I didn’t need a straw I was plenty good without the use of training wheel type devices.

We got in a huge ass fight and my stepdad had to peel us apart. I bolted.

I ran and hid. I eventually snuck back into the basement when they didn’t know. I overheard her call my dad and told him to come get me.

I knew help was on the way.

When he showed up I came flying out of the basement grabbed some stuff and we took off.

Ironically enough, he was living with a girlfriend and she didn’t want anything to do with me.

Shocker. Another woman letting me down. This would begin the fledgling seed for feeling that women were unsupportive, unreliable, Crazy and a bunch of other heinous things.

So we had to live with my uncle for a bit until Dad moved from Fremont to Elkhorn so I could continue school.

I’ll never forget the Monday going back to school after that eventful weekend. We had those standardized tests and I went to sign in and gave them the last name I had been using since Dead mom and stepdad got married.

The teacher pulled me aside and said I had to go talk to the school counselor.

Apparently, I was not legally adopted and my name was never legally my stepdads last name.

Dead mom in all her craziness would just randomly change our last names to whomever she was married to at the time.

I later found out that she did this same bullshit to my siblings.

The guidance counselor told me that dead mom called that morning and informed them that my last name was to be changed to my dads real last name. But gave me no heads up about that.

I was fucking MORTIFIED. And the nails in the coffin were sealed of me ever having any sort of respect or anything for her ever again.

I fucking loathed her with every ounce of my being.

For the first few weeks of living with Dad I pretty much was a reckless teen. But the most amazing thing happened when I realized that I didn’t have to run and hide or numb and drug myself because the environment and the person I was with gave me security, belonging, acceptance.

For the first time I was actually being seen. I changed dramatically. I never lived with Dead mom again.

Our relationship would muster on as I transitioned into adulthood. She was still so fucked up, Crazy, and untrustworthy.

The final straw came when she didn’t come to my super small wedding.

I got the scissors out and snipped away at that relationship. It was for my highest good to rid myself and my life of her toxic energy.

I didn’t speak to her from 2007 until 2011 until I found out she was gonna die.

Turns out energetically that if you harbor a bunch of bullshit in your soul like she did it will manifest in the form of illness. And she got a doozy.

Stage 4 metastatic lung cancer killed her in just under 6 months.

Y’all know I’m about as woo as they come so yes, I most definitely believe that she brought that disease on that took her to meet her maker because all off that harmful energy she put out her entire life.

Smoking contributed, yes. But being a menace like that will have consequences.

So what does my own self-love journey have anything to do with being able to look at dead mom through a more compassionate lens?

Because in my own spiritual journey I know that we seek love and acceptance. But what we are generally never taught until we fuck up royally a bunch, is that we must learn to love and accept ourselves first and foremost.

We are never taught to really be our own best friend. We look to external sources to fill spaces in us that our own selves need to be filling in healthful, uplifting, soul-filling, empowering ways.

I recall Grandma Betty (dead moms mom) telling me when Dead mom was dying that she had deep regrets when it came to mom.

She mentioned that mom was never meant to have siblings. She had a younger sister that rocked her world when she was born.

She was replaced… Sound familiar? Ya. Because that’s exactly what she did to me.

Grandma told me Dead mom really spiraled when grandpa was gone all the time trucking. She went looking for love in a bunch of wrong places.

She loved her daddy.

Got married young. Got pregnant young.

It was all a part of her quest for love and belonging.

I will give credit where credit is due.

She loved my stepdad more than a person possibly could, and then some. His first wife wanted him back after he started dating my mom allegedly from stories I have heard. I distinctly recall fights going on between the two women.

Which is ubber funny because now my stepdad is back dating his first wife and she does my hair.

Sorry (notsorry) Dead mom πŸ™ƒ

But that’s the power of forgiveness and not holding grudges.

Watching my stepdad struggle to this day with Dead mom being dead makes me sort of yearn for someone to love me like that.

He knew her craziness and the mess of stuff we uncovered when she died and STILL loves her unconditionally.

That’s all this was for her. A journey to and for love. For her it didn’t matter that innocent bystanders were forsaken.

Namely, me.

But looking backwards with this light helps me ease the burden and be able to forgive.

Holding hatred for her is like me drinking poison and expecting her to die. OH wait, she is dead πŸ€£πŸ™ƒ

It serves no one. Plus knowing what I know now about energy and emotions and all things woo, I don’t want those lower vibrational feels roaming around in my heart or soul.

Also, looking back at this helps me see where my path to love was going. It helped direct me and get me looking in the right places. But not after spending 33 years looking in all the wrong ones.

I forgive her for everything because had I not gone through some of that shit I wouldn’t have the strong feelings I do now in regards to kids.

I know to teach and inspire and impress upon EVERYONE the importance of learning to source love and acceptance internally.

That means every part of us inside. The things we keep locked up and hidden in shame and regret. The scars. All of it deserves our own love and acceptance.

Anything we rely on that is external can be taken away. But when we are sovereign inside ourselves we are able to manage that.

I am able to extend a bit of gratitude towards her now. Her journey to love overlapped with my journey to coming home to me. The person I was before all this stuff happened to me.

It was through my self-love journey that my relationships outside of me started being transformed. Even with dead peeps.

As I celebrated my 36 birthday I dedicate this year to being more me than I have ever been.

Maybe that means divulging more of my deepest darkests void of fear of judgement from others. Maybe it means standing alone more than before because the priority of being authentic and unapologetically me supersedes the need to simply belong now.

I’m not sure of many things but I know this, when we are able to view others and their behaviors as their own journey to find themselves and to be loved it makes it much more easy to be forgiving and compassionate. I’m not always perfect at this but I’m moving in the right direction.

Enough for now.

Every ounce of my being… ❣️

a. Danielle

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