Healing Out Loud

I have had memories pop up for me recently.
I remember being late to a band concert when I was in fifth grade. I had severe anxiety. Mother had taken me to the back door of the stage, demanded that I just go in and sit down. I remember staring at my band mates and the band teacher, terrified to move. I don’t remember if I ended up on that stage or not. I have a faint memory of being there, but not enough to reassure me that it happened.

The next memory involved a choir concert. It was the end of the year. It was warm out. I don’t remember if it was seventh or eighth grade, but I do remember what I was wearing. It was a sleeveless button-down shirt. It was a pretty shade of blue. I also wore silky blue pants and white sandals. I was so proud of myself for matching. I was never good at that. I remember Mother being angry at Dad. She said that he shouldn’t have let me pick out my own outfit and that I looked ridiculous. She was embarrassed to be seen with me.

The last memory evades me at the moment.

I always seemed to block out the memories of her criticizing me. Some things are easy to remember, but those two memories, they stayed hidden. They came to the surface recently due to my youngest having his first band concert a few weeks ago. I could understand how he was feeling because, I too, had those same emotions when I was his age.
I can’t imagine treating any of my children the way she treated me. It seems so cruel and unnecessary.

I am still going strong with no contact. I didn’t reach out to her on Mother’s Day. It was the second Mother’s Day I didn’t speak to her. The first one was 2024. Last year, I saw her because my youngest wanted to and we were in the town she resides in.
I wasn’t upset this year. It was just another day. I celebrated with my kids and celebrated my husband’s birthday. I felt no regret or longing. It was nice.

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