In Possession of My Tormentor's Weapon

In 1989, when I left home for the final time, and eventually married my ex, I grabbed a humble, well-worn wooden spoon. I have vivid memories of mom using it to stir bubbling pots of Sunday gravy, or mixing up batches of holiday cookies--and I'm realizing now, 900+ days since she died, that those were just surface memories and attachments I had with that spoon. 

Only recently did the other memories associated with that spoon bubble up from the depths of my subconsciousness, and I am remembering the spoon as an instrument of abuse. When enraged, she'd lash out and beat us with whatever she had in her hands at the time.

My sister always (ALWAYS!) would get stabbed during dinners, but for me, I usually got beat with the bristle end of a hair brush, or get beat with the wooden spoon, or a stinging open-handed slap--all met with m stony stoic silence until one day I snarled out the words, "Are you DONE?" And I don't think she ever beat me again after that.

I'm just now able to acknowledge my tormentor is physically gone, but her physical weapon remains in my kitchen--yet her psychological and emotional weapon remains deeply entrenched in my memories, my attachment style, persistent rumination, and fighting a constant battle against the negative inner dialogue and self-gaslighting. 

Somewhere I read CS Lewis said that it isn't JUST that his friend died--it's that the part of him that only his friend could bring out would never be brought out again.

Though not a friend--when mom died a big part of me died too, but which part? The dangerously vulnerable part? If so, I should be glad it won't be brought out again. But she is my mom, and she gave me life--something I had no choice in the matter, and I had no choice for 52 years but be resentful and resigned that the relationship never was AND NEVER WILL BE what I wanted and desperately needed it to be, and I just hope whatever I DID do for her/on her behalf was sufficient. And yet, all I still want to do is run away and hide.