Staring at the Sun
A little girl's longing for love
Once upon a time, a tiny girl named Madeleine was born to a mean and hateful woman. Bald-headed and needy, like babies are known to be, she’d cry to be held, but no one came. Although her mother was gorgeous as a movie star on the outside, always wearing the newest fashions and bright red lips, inside she was ugly, cruel, and broken.
This woman was so broken, that as Madeleine grew, her mother made it known that she had never been wanted, that she was a very ugly little girl, and that she was hated by her mother. The very woman whose job it was to nurture, protect and love, used belts, hangers, brushes and whatever was close enough to grab, to strike Madeleine’s little body, often leaving swollen marks.
Luckily, Madeleine had a very loving grandmother who lived in the apartment downstairs. She would run to her grandmother after a beating, hoping she hadn’t heard all the yelling and crying from upstairs. She pretended to be happy, she was not allowed to tell. She’d carefully hide her fresh bruises and make up stories about the noise, and pretended that everything was a-okay. Her kind and loving Grandmother would snuggle her and kiss her little head, never knowing, or maybe just never asking.
This little girl with gangly legs and eyes as blue as the sky was made to take care of her younger brother, who was a baby. Often they’d be locked out of the house, for hours, in the heat or in the cold, while her mother entertained men, and did bad things with needles and spoons. She knew because she’d find them around the house later. Strange men came and went. Some of them scared her and looked at her funny, in a nasty, scary way. Loud parties lasted late into the night, even on school nights, while she tried to sleep upstairs. Her worn second-hand pajamas were not enough to protect her from random intoxicated men who sometimes stumbled in.
At school one day, the teacher excitedly told the class they would be watching a total eclipse of the sun outside. The kids made special viewers out of aluminum foil and cardboard boxes. The teacher repeatedly warned them to not look directly at the sun. It could quite possibly blind a child, for life.
For life? Blind? Madeleine considered this.
When it was time for the eclipse, the class bumbled outside, excited and anxious to see this rare event. When it happened, Madeleine did not take her eyes off of the sun. Even though she could feel it burning into her sky blue eyes, she didn’t care.
In fact, it’s what she was hoping for, so that maybe, if she went blind, her mean mother might love her.
She so badly wanted to be loved and was willing to trade her eyesight for it.
Nothing happened, even though she stared so hard, it hurt. Disappointed, she walked home somberly, her eyes still in tact.
The little girl was my mother. My heart would break whenever she’d recollect this tale from her collection of childhood stories.
I can’t imagine a mother so cruel. I can’t imagine a little girl feeling so hated, so worthless, that she would give up her eyesight, just to be seen, just to be loved.
Abuse makes a child create the strangest fantasies. She stared at the sun, ready and willing to be blind, just to be loved.
My mom had me, very young. Married at 16, she gave birth to me at 18, with a vow in her heart, that I would never feel unloved or unwanted.
And for the first few years, she doted on me. She sewed Barbie clothes for me, made me pretend kitchen appliances from cardboard boxes, with dials that really turned and doors that really opened. She and my dad gave me my love for words and books, teaching me to read at age 3. She played with me, a lot, and we’d sing and dance and pretend and have adventures and I adored her.
I learned more of her horrible childhood as the years went by. I’d hear the same stories over and over again, especially when she drank. It was always plain for me to see, she was still in pain. Yet she did her absolute best to raise me lovingly. How did she even know how to love a child, considering her model, considering the mental and physical abuse she endured? How was she so loving and caring, considering the cruel voice in her head that never stopped telling her she was worthless?
Some mothers continue cycles, and some break them. My mom broke the cycle of maternal abuse with me. She decided to do things differently.
We break cycles by deciding to do things differently. We make promises that our children will never know the pain we did. And then, we work hard.
But, she never healed from the damages that had been done to her. Instead, her inner child’s festering wounds ran her life. She turned to drugs and alcohol early, to numb the pain. She struggled with addiction, mental illness, eating disorders and self-loathing.
That voice of her mother, “you are ugly, I never wanted you, I hate you” never went away. It just became her own voice, to herself.
My mom was sick, for her entire adult life. She was a loving, attentive mother to me and my brother, up until she left. Without the tethers of mothering and wife-ing to keep her anchored to the earth, she floated out, into her own chaotic world, because she never learned to love herself. And that breaks my heart.
My relationship with her, after she moved out, was complicated and challenging, a roller coaster of emotions, years and years of drama and chaos. Most of her and our troubles stemmed from my disdain for her addictions, frustration with her poor choices and dangerous messes she found herself in. I’d become so hopeful every time she tried to be sober, expecting changed behavior, only to have my heart broken, again and again.
But I always loved her. As painful as it was to love her at times, the little girl inside of me always wanted her mommy.
Our mothers are God embodied when we are children, and those children live inside of us when we are grown.
Sadly, that little girl inside of her, the one with the festering wounds, the one who would willingly burn her eyes blind to be loved, never healed.
So Mom, good news. I broke the cycle. I’ve worked so hard to get here.
I love myself. I take care of myself.
I give and receive love in a health(ier) way. I am whole, and healed. I continue to heal.
The unmet needs of your childhood were never met, and I’ve learned to meet my own.
I mother myself, tenderly, lovingly.
My mom would be happy to know, I dote on me. Just like she used to.
What cycles are you ready to break? What unmet childhood needs can you learn to meet yourself?
What could you do to mother yourself now, the way you needed to be mothered then?
P.S. Mom, I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling your story. Please understand, it’s my story, too.