stories that no longer serve me

I am trying to use gratitude as a way to stop using stories that no longer serve me. I want to rewrite those stories using gratitude,  rather than getting hooked by my despair...my fears that I am alone and at risk all the time.

I ask myself what are the stories that no longer serve me?

That my mother was mean and didn't love me. That she ignored me. That she hated me.
She was mean, and had a short fuse, was impatient, self medicated with beer, pills and cigarettes.She was frustrated, bored, angry, and lonely. She had a lot of anger. I will never know why or where it originated. But in a flash her temper would take the roof off the house. She was physically violent with me and verbally abusive. She was insecure about her looks and doubted that she was special to anyone. Her children gave her a wide berth and her grandchildren were afraid of her. She yelled a lot. I yelled back. I was her only child that yelled back. I think in a way she was grateful to me for yelling back. At least she knew I heard her. But oh the big loud yelling matches and fights we had. It was bad. Very bad.

None of this means she didn't love me. She did. She did care for me. She had difficulty showing love, and I now surmise it was from a lack of affection and love in her home.  She didn't know how. She did try, and I do know of moments where she did connect with me her youngest daughter. I think for my part I hardened against her, gave up on getting what I wanted from her and started looking for it elsewhere. Maybe even in the sexual abuse I was experiencing from my brother. He didn't yell.

I blamed my mother for years for not protecting me from that abuse, but in reality both of my parents failed me. To blame my father was too dangerous. He was my anchor, my light in a dark tunnel, my safety so he could not be blamed, as for a long time I thought he was all I had. There is truth in that and his unconditional love continues to save me.

She calmed down with age and illness. And her later years she tried to be kinder to me. I now wish I had not been so dismissive of her attempts. But she had hurt me so deeply I was protecting myself. I needed her to live longer, so I could have dropped my protection and responded to her efforts of affection.

Once the emotional threat of her presence was gone, because she died, I began to understand her. It was safe, she could no longer hurt me. So the story of Peg and Margaret began to change. I am named after my mother and if she were here she would admire me and feel proud of my resilience and social justice work. She was a volunteer and church fundraiser. We share many traits.

Time to write a new story for Peg and Margaret


How can I remember to plant seeds of gratitude for what is to come for all the endless possibilities open to me?