The invitation sits in my in box.
I think its spam but when I open it she asks me to meet on Friday.
The last time we met I asked her to stop keeping me a secret.
A Dirty Little Secret.
O Kate, mum says to me gently, why do you use those words?
Because it hurts to feel the product of shame.
But it didn’t go well. And she told me to ask God – as would she- what to do.
I smiled a tiny tight smile of acquiescence, determined to be loved, determined to please
But abdicating – no, abandoning – myself – in the process again….
And now she asks to meet.
The thing is, I don’t think it a positive thing so why would I go to meet a negative thing in remembrance of things past.
Addiction see, addiction to the drama and specialness of being adopted, my story, the story of me.
After the last meeting there was greater understanding on my part.
She made it clear in a way that I could finally understand that I was the product of a forceful coupling, a time and a memory she would like to forget and I remind her of that.
Katie, no don’t say that, says mum – see – always always being closed down on my true feelings my authentic self and so yes I will write that and I will roar my pain because I live with it every day.
And somehow, I see clearly now , that I don’t know how to live without it, make peace with it get beyond it – see – who am I without the story? What am I? Who am I anyway beyond that?
Nothing and everything, this powerful thought entrances me, telescopes in and out on itself and I’m broken in two, breathless, heartfelt pain.
As mum would say to the assistant, shoving the shopping trolley between the aisles in Morrisons when her credit card bounced for payment,
Just fuck it.
Illustration Nancy Haslam-Chance