My Pattern

My mother was her mother's daughter.

My mother's mother hurt her.

I still do not know exactly what that means.

I try to understand. Sometimes. Sometimes I try to dig deep so I can understand it better.

I know it was hurtful. I know it was so hurtful.

I was raised with this understanding. 

My mother was hurtful to us because she did not have a good relationship with her mother.

My mother was hurtful to us because she did not understand how to be a good mother, because her mother had been a terrible mother.

My mother was hurtful to us despite not wanting to be hurtful.

My mother wanted to be a good mother. 

My mother wanted to not be her mother.

My mother was still hurtful, because she had been hurt.

My mother was mentally ill.

My mother's love went up and down with her mood.

My mother's love was hurtful.

My mother's love was unstable.

My mother got sick.

I took care of my mother.

Even though she had been erratic with her love, because she was hurt, I was there for her when she got sick, when she was hurting.

I was 16.

My mother disappeared.

She said she did not want to be a mother anymore.

She announced it one day.

Like it was a choice.

She moved out of our house.

She moved across the country.

Then she died.

Before she died my mother said she was sorry that she was not the mother I had needed. 

I hugged her and I forgave her because she was hurt, that is why she hurt me. Because she was mentally ill. It wasn't her fault. The hurt was not her fault. I either understood this or wanted to understand this, so I wouldn't be as hurt by her. 

I wanted a mom who was loving.

I wanted a mom who was stable.

I wanted a mom who didn't disappear.

But I loved a mom who was not able to love me.

This is my pattern. 

This is the pattern of my love.