Mental Meanderings

A Loved One's Acknowledgement?

A child's hand reaches out
her drawing, finger painted,
clutched tightly in her little hand.
"Mother, do you see?
It says 'I love you'
there you are
standing beside me."

She doesn't see
her eyes are turned aside.

Although the years have passed
girl turned woman still brings her pictures.
Mother still can't see her smile,
her hand outstretched, work clasped,
tears begging for a mother's pride,
a burning ache for approval
or at least acknowledgement.

Ok, well it was scrawled hastily in the moments between two thoughts. It's not Shakespeare but it certainly vented my pain.

Of course I feel a little exposed writing this entry. My mother has in the past read a few of my blog entries so chances are she might read this one. But it's my blog, my honesty, my venting, ranting or whatever and I need to express myself. I'm not about to go off and create another blog or keep it bottled inside. Plus, if she reads it then *shrugs* maybe we'll have on of those heart to hearts that bring people closer. I don't have the courage the face her front on with something like this.

I feel utterly rediculous. Especially since she was talking today about how depression stems from disrupted expectations. If you expect something to go a specific way and it doesn't, you get depressed. This is true to a point, and yet I don't know how to stop expecting things.

One of the things I've expected over all these years and frequently been disappointed by is the acceptance of my writing amongst my loved ones. In fact sometimes I reflect on my past experiences and wonder how I still manage to put pen to paper. I guess it just goes to show how much writing is a part of who I am. Perhaps it's a good sign of my steadfast dedication to this calling.

I remember a time when I bounced in excitement declaring I'd sold my first peice to my husband a few years ago. He asked, "How much?" and when I told him he cast it aside as a pittance. To me the figure on the check meant nothing. I'd been paid for my work which was a validation of my worth in more than dollars and cents. Someone was willing to pay. That made me a professional writer rather than a hobbiest. He didn't understand.

With my mother I often feel like the child in the poem above. I'm buzzing about something I wrote and so I share it with my mother and let myself get crushed because while she usually takes the time to read it she doesn't really acknowledge what she has read. I keep telling myself I'm being silly, childish. She doesn't really understand poetry and she struggles with her dislexia having some difficulty reading. Think of listening to poetry read by someone who stutters, that is how my mother would always hear/read poetry. So it should be understandable that sometimes it's unclear, lacking meaning when she reads it.

But still, I show her and deep inside I feel like that girl proudly displaying her first picture and just waiting to hear how brilliant the work is, how wonderful I am, that I'm the most precious gift a mother could have and that I'm gifted and have talents that should be nutured, appreciated. My hopes are shattered by lack of response or pain, "I don't get it." or "these are all so dark". I keep reminding myself it's not the work that's critiqued. I wonder if she even knows me at times like this.

Today I shared with her "Forever Loved: Of An Autistic Child" , my latest poem. It touches me to read it even having written it and so far all the reviews have mentioned how incredibly emotional this peice is. I sent it to her and told her she might want to keep a tissue handy. Her only comment, "It didn't make me cry." I felt like a failure. I'd worked to make an emotional, heart stroking peice and it didn't effect her. The fact that it touches me and so many others didn't seem to matter in that moment.

For some reason the opinion of our loved ones are the most important to us. My mother is the closest family I have outside of my own children. She's the only family I share my work with these days. I keep wanting to base the quality of my work on what she thinks and yet if I did I'd be constantly beaten down because she rarely has encouraging words for any of it.

"Mother, I'm not showing you this to have you 'edit' it. I'm showing you my first finger painting. Why can't you beem with pride at a daughter who shares her gift, her love, her warmth and caring? Why can't you acknowledge the heart she puts into her words? Why can't you tell me how wonderful everything I do is in your eyes?"

A mother's bias. I know she loves me and her love is unconditional. But while I might be an adult, with children of my own, inside when I stand beside my mother I am still a daughter who wants to be perfect, brilliant, and the light of my mother's life.

*wipes away a few tears* Sorry everyone, needed to break down for a little. I'll be back to my normal self tomorrow. Maybe someday I'll stop showing my work to my family and expecting them to accept and appreciate my talent. I'll grow up and realise that the only validation for what I do that matters is my own. Maybe I'll keep standing with my finger painting clutched tightly, eyes gazing up with pleading expectation, waiting to be seen.