Those Who Wound: Mothers and Fathers- Pt.1

This entry may appear many times over and I'm going to try not to edit it too deeply for the sake of my immediate. So, readers: patience.

I've been thinking of my mother and father since the beginning really, but moreso over the last ten years or so especially. You see, they are a part of the ruins for which I have no tools. It's okay because I'm not really the One to do that rebuilding. I just look over them once in a while and wonder, and question, and eventually learn something about my ruins.

Today, I look at them and I hear the things they used to say...the things that broke down my foundations:

"Clumsy"
"You'll run out of words before you're 20"
"The only reason those boys want to be your friend is so they can get some"
"Dreamer. Her head is always in the clouds. She doesn't really know what she wants"
"Prince charmings don't exist. It doesn't work that way."
"You can't always have what you want."
"Is that what you're wearing? Okay, if you want to look like a slut."

Today, I look at them and I see areas in myself echoed in the chipping from their faces and the paint peeling from their arms and legs:
My mother's longing for the feminine, but answering her pain with defiance and domination exploding in fear. My father's longing for strength, but answering his pain with passivity and silence exploding in anger.
I longed as a girl for some direct attention. Leave flowers in my room on special days. Keep hugging and kissing me after age 10. Say that I'm worth the stars and no man was worth catching me. Say that if I have faith, anything is possible. Tell me God made me to be a brilliantly beautiful reflection of Himself...then show me the way to His love. This is what I longed for, but God saw fit to write it a different way. Maybe to clear me away from their crumbling state; maybe to form me into something unruined parents could not even fathom fashioning a child into. Maybe both.

Today, I look at them and still grieve their state. Today, I look at them and learn that sometimes I do talk too much. Sometimes I am a clutz. But sometimes I speak light and salt. But sometimes, I run into something beautiful.