We Are Mirrors
I feel sick in my stomach the way I felt on Sundays as a child. My mom called it Sunday-itis. Those days 'Mom's house' was a haven of magic and safety. Waking up with sweet music filling the rooms, the smell of fresh coffee teasing our nostrils—I didn't even like coffee then, but it smelled so divine—and the food, the warm heart food that was a pleasure to eat because the state of being of the chef was... happy... from what I remember, though memory has it's own rules.
Reconciling your childhood is a prerequisite of being human. It is the default human condition. Part of the difficulty with this is all of the conditioning and programming we're exposed to during our childhood, causing us to erect complicated walls and gates—a constantly evolving maze we are destined to navigate.
In this particular case, I have these expectations of feeling loved, supported, respected and I am met with something very different; it makes me feel like a parasite. It makes me feel like a manipulator, a liar of the mean persuasion. I feel confused and bombarded, and I do not feel loved. In some variations, I feel like I am being bound to a contract I did not agree to and then I start to feel taken advantage of.
Warm breezy feelings that live in my childhood, support, nurturing, have been replaced with walls of ice that sweat and clench their jaws, rocks in the path that threaten to puncture the feet. I'd rather go a different direction, but more than that I want to melt the walls. I want to sweep the path.