the heel press

On the one hand, I grew up with a strong desire to be just like my mother, Mama I call her. I had a deep, almost possessive love towards Mama to the point where my Onechan, older sister, would tease me, calling me a maza-kon, literally an abbreviation for mother-complex.  On the other, I had an intense disgust for her weakness towards my father, or Papa, and prayed I wouldn’t be anything like her as a woman/wife.  So dichotomous.  So conflicting.  A long-running love-hate relationship.  As much as I loved and honored her generosity, her giving heart, I think my fear of ending up just like her, abused and powerless, gave birth to a righteous, maybe even religious belief in our differences.  Language barriers.  A generation gap.  Her stubborn closed-mindedness.  My stubborn open-mindedness.  Her conservative need for stability.  My liberal desire for growth.  I’m constantly frustrated by her inability and unwillingness to step out to see me, devastated by her apathetic indifference towards me.  My thoughts.  Feelings.  Values.  Experiences.  Even existence.  I hunger.  For recognition, maybe even validation.  Not just cleanly sorted under her labels, “my baby”, “my youngest daughter” and be denied everything else that I am.  But it’s not her fault, nobody is to blame.  I’m left with my inner abyss, with this chasm between us.  She may never really understand me.  Ever.  So I give up, it’s shoganai.  “It cannot be helped, nothing can be done.”  I abhor even the slightest possibility of my future regressing to resemble hers, so I do everything in my power to sail as far away as I can from her island of powerlessness and dysfunction.  I bury my hopes in books and education.  Wisdom will cure this curse running deep in our blood, our roots.  I diligently embark on a journey for Independence, build a temple of self-respect, one accomplishment at a time.  I have a relentless urge to metamorphosize into a stronger, surer self.  And I choose to live in America, free from societal restrictions and filial obligation.  So I think.  I’ve run so hard, so far, for so long, yet it’s dawned on me that I may be running in circles.  Or more likely, just desperately running away.  Away from what is at heart.  Away from really looking into my eyes because I know she’s there.  I refused to acknowledge it because I fear the power of her voice.  But not any longer.  I realize this part of her/me I dread will destroy me, will never go away.  Unless faced.  She lives in me.  She is me.  A part of Me.  Only quietly waiting for the best chance to take Me hostage.  Little by little. Eating at confidence and esteem until nothing is left but a sunken face.  Still hungry.  Craving.  Needing.  Love.  That me plagues Me.  And I only empower it by ignoring it.  So I look closer.  Addicted to staying connected, like another sign of attention is a necessary stamp of validity.  Another seduction of approval, a secret key to lock love away.  A permission to be me.  I feel like mother-earth is slipping under me.  Am I losing control?  Just so screwed up?  I very much may well be.  But I won’t ever unscrew these false convictions until I connect with Myself.  All parts, including this me.  Shifting inconvenient truths back into focus.  Because I’m not so different after all from her.  The way she gives all of herself to everyone but her self.  That is me.  How Papa and we, the kids, define her happiness.  That’s me, too.  Not so different at all.  Pieces of Me ready to be acknowledged.  Understood.  (Consoled?  No, not consoled.)  Loved.