Broken Mothers of Broken Daughters Made By Broken Fathers

In this segment of my journey, I address mothers of broken daughters and hope that you might understand the thoughts, the pain, the guilt, the shame and the regrets I went through, even though it was lost then, and will always be lost to my own mother. Being here means that you are nothing like my mother was. For that, I salute you. Perhaps, a little insight into what I desperately needed from my own mother might be the guide you need, in an Afterwards of your own, and one that is untaught to you, and you're your broken daughter. There is a mountain ahead of both of you, but it is one I have no doubt you would climb a hundred times over to release you of your unfounded guilt, your child's intense desire to be exonerated from any wrongdoing and allow you the insight into putting your family back together. The last chapter deals with the death of my monster and the truth about my broken mother. xx --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ I thought I'd never forgive him or mourn his death. I thought I would then be free. I thought that ignoring his calls, his messages, and his desperate attempts to apologize to me would preserve my glued-back-together-brokenness. I thought I wouldn't shed a single tear and that finally, my life would be unbroken. I thought that I would never look back on what could have been with my mother. I thought that she could never be to me what I am to my daughter. I thought she'd never change and that she'd hate me forever. I thought I'd never miss her. Or him. I thought I would never reflect on the moments that were good in my childhood. There weren't many and the bad was just too bad, overshadowing any good that there was. All I thought I knew about my own brokenness was a lie. I did not fully understand or realize how terribly broken she was, and how my father shattered her life. With no family, mother or father to ask for help, she was trapped in a life she was desperate to escape. My father broke her, and then he went on with his life. We were all products of a darkness in this world. We were all caught up in an evil we couldn't escape. Not my father. Not my mother. Not us. I understand that today, and most things make sense. I still have moments of anger towards my father, but it's different now. They are moments of anger infused with an overwhelming sadness that causes me to shout out to him about all our what-if's and what-should-have-been's. Some days, I berate him loudly for his stupid mistakes, and other days, I wonder what broke him? The thing is, I don't know much about my father's younger years or childhood. I don't know about a traumatic event he might have suffered, or if perhaps history was repeating itself. I don't know? I never asked. I never wanted to know because, at the time, it would never have justified what he did to us. So today, I want to ask mothers and daughters to talk about this. Talk about your brokenness and don't wait three decades to get it right. Understand one another and pick up your broken pieces together. Broken Mother, tell her about your own shattered heart.