…and Taught Me Faith is Not Easily Learned
I stood in the bedroom looking at the window. My eyes were focused faced forward at what was in front of me. The twin bed was to my left but I did not/could not look towards it.
I saw the word processor on the desk where my mother wrote her last words. The notes typed out next to it. One for my brother, one for me, one for? Someone else?
I don’t know.
I saw the teddy bear. The teddy bear she held.
I saw the rosary beads, black and plastic.
I saw the daily prayer book, perhaps opened to the last day she read.
I did not however, see her. My mother. The day she died. The moment she died. I only saw the last things she touched, held, was comforted by.
I only saw the things I hated. For letting her go. For not rescuing her. For not saving her from leaving me. For not saving me from years of quiet, inner torment. Blaming, shaming, anger beyond words.
I did not see the pills she took. The large bottle she was over-prescribed for her upcoming trip. The pills meant to save her. The ones she swallowed in bulk to drift into a sleep with no return.
They were not there.
My focus zoomed in on the Teddy Bear.
“I hate you.”
I said it out loud. “I hate you for letting her leave. I want to rip you to shreds.”
And so I did. I ripped off it’s arm and watched the fluff come out. I ripped off a leg and threw it across the room.
“I hate you!” I cried. “Why didn’t you do anything??”
And then I felt it. The feeling underneath. The rage underneath. The hurt underneath.
The BETRAYAL underneath.
The words muffled, softer through the tears.
My body sunk into itself with the revelation.
“HE” betrayed me. He abandoned me. I believed in HIM and he didn’t do a damn thing to help her. It was on me. It was always on me. And I hated HIM for it.
“I hate God for not saving her. I hate God for letting her leave.”
At this point the tears were silent, yet every muscle in my body was loud as it tightened.
I felt the shock waves move through me.
She was gone and I hated HIM.
My eyes were closed as I relayed this vision to my therapist. The room in my mind as real as the one I sat in across from her.
The portal to the past wide open as I revisited the fear that had been knocking at my door asking to be seen.
But today it wasn’t fear that invited me to look further in. It was anger. And sadness. And grief for this loss I have to process in the smallest of doses.
The hurt runs deep. The loss so significant I could not bear to let myself feel the depth of her absence for over 30 years.
I was convinced I was fine. It was fine. I didn’t need her.
Until recently. Until I opened up the gateway to let myself look in to what was happening underneath all the protection, the denial, the “all is well.” The inner guards who let me live my life comfortably enough until I was ready to feel a little bit more. Until my body was ready to digest the reality of what really happened from the perspective of a child.
A child who became a caretaker at the age of 6, who counseled her mother till the age of 14, who lost her mother before she ever learned what it felt like to be protected and nurtured.
A child who lost her faith in a version of God she was taught would give her that protection and nurturing she never received.
The same child who wanted to voice her anger and feeling of betrayal so she wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. Who needed to feel the emotions she swallowed in shame. The emotions that had been hiding in my body for years.
With their reveal, their expression, their movement, I felt lighter, calmer and quite frankly, in awe.
I slowly returned to the present. I felt my feet on the ground, my hands on my lap, my fingers gently rubbing together to know I was not dreaming. As I wiped away the tears and opened my eyes, I looked at my therapist with a smirk.
“Well…I did not see that coming. I have no conscious memory of feeling that way. This work is amazing.”
She smiled back at me. “It really is.”
Each layer I unravel frees me from my repression. Each body memory I let myself move through shows me what is living below my every day behaviors and responses to life.
A hatred towards God?
It makes sense. It makes sense that as a child I was taught that God would protect me if I just believed. If I did and said the “right” things, all would be well. If I was a good girl I would be taken care of. If I took care of myself and didn’t show any needs, I would be loved because I wouldn’t put anyone out.
If I listened to my mother’s deep depression when no one was around, I just had to convince her to trust HIM. HE would help her.
And then she was gone.
I tried my best to convince her to stay. To give her enough attention and love to want to be here. She left anyway. To be with HIM.
And I was left alone to figure out the rest of it by myself.
That’s what it felt like.
No wonder I hated HIM.
It’s taken decades to discover what trust really feels like. In myself, in life and in something beyond my cognitive comprehension that has brought me the feeling of peace and protection.
Do I hate God now?
No.
I see now I was betrayed by a belief, not a being.
A belief that was taught to me by adults who meant well. Adults who themselves were searching for something to trust too. Passed on through a filter clogged by fear and judgment. A judgment I was taught to believe in, but didn’t subscribe to.
My return to what God is to me took years to re-discover. My mother’s mother, my beloved grandmother, opened up my curiosity to the occult. To the idea that there was more than this life in front of us. I think we both needed to believe my mother went somewhere and not into the abyss of nothingness. And we wanted proof.
I read countless books authored by mediums, intuitives and healers. Unsure what to believe, I was open. That openness lead me down one path after another looking for God, my Higher Power, Source, Spirit, the Creator, the Universe…whatever name was offered.
And what I found was not evidence of a mighty power, but of a force I felt within me. Sounds very cliche, but it’s true.
I never saw God the way others described to me as a child, I felt what made sense to me. A sense of calm, comfort and faith. A source of knowledge and insight that streams into my awareness. A wave of compassion, understanding and genuine care. Whatever love feels like — that is what God was and is for me.
Which is why when I opened up that memory, from the perspective of a six year old, I can see why she rejected what she was taught. Why she felt betrayed and abandoned.
She was looking for a rescuer, not a loving guide.
Some days, she still is.
And so I will continue to go deeper into my wounds to uncover what lays dormant wanting to be seen and expressed. I will continue to look for where trust was broken, so I can slowly, bravely walk the path to mend it.
To understand, and support the parts of me which instinctually steer away from choosing what I need myself.
I could not be the God my mother needed, and it’s possible I will hold that pain for the rest of my life. But I can work at keeping my heart open to feel the love she missed out on and live a life, she too, deserved.
Lynn Reilly is a licensed professional counselor, master energy therapist, and author of the self-help book, 30 Days to Me and the children’s book, The Secret to Beating the Dragon. She is also a contributing author telling her story of hope and transformation in the book, Crappy to Happy.
Lynn is a lifelong counselor with an expertise in understanding human behavior and sharing this knowledge with others. Her passion is to inspire people of all ages how to support themselves while living a serendipitous life…a life filled with unexpected joy and passion…a life meant to be.
