Bringing the perspective of Loving Consciousness to the Mother Wound allows us to take back our power and change out of the costume of The Victim. We understand now that we chose our Mothers and the roles they would play with us. We understand that there is great learning for us in all of the experiences given to us throughout this role. There has also been learning opportunities for our Mothers, but it is not our responsibility to to make sure that this learning takes place.
Understanding that our responsibility lies only with our own journey and learning, we are free to choose our next role. The next role we choose to play depends entirely on us, it our journey after all. Sometimes a change in role on our part will be enough to prompt a complimentary role change for our Mothers and so allow the relationship to also change and grow. Sometimes though, the role of The Wounding Mother must be retained, not for our learning, but for our Mothers’ and perhaps for other family members, and this is okay. We have only to walk our journey and be responsible for ourselves.
As the storm clouds threatened to take over my mother’s life my father started his own business, an accounting company, which he eventually ran from home in a purpose built office separate to the house. My mother worked with him putting sixty hours a week into the business while running the house and caring for two demanding little girls who consistently deprived her of sleep.
This gruelling work load eventually took its toll and before I was five years old my mother was hospitalised for the first time with major depression. She stayed in hospital for several weeks during which time she was subjected to Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT) and placed on heavy medication that left her feeling groggy and disconnected from life and the world around her. As always in a crisis my mother’s spirit family, led by Steven, gathered around her offering comfort and support. My mother tried to resist them because she knew too well the consequences of ‘communing with the dead’. Their loving energy that promised to soothe and heal proved stronger than her fear of god’s retribution and she began once again to talk with spirit. Unfortunately seeking such solace resulted in dire consequences, not from god but from the medical staff at the hospital. My mother’s stay was lengthened and and her doctors began considering that their patient had experienced a psychotic break.
Could my mother’s shame be any deeper? Hospitalised for a mental illness and needing one of her sister in-laws to care for her two daughters. For years to come my mother’s hospitalisations were to be referred to by my father and his family as ‘stays in the nut house’. The stigma of her illness was immense. When my mother returned home this first time she presented my sister and I with a wicker doll’s cradle each. She had woven these during her stay in hospital as part of her therapy. Even then I could sense an air of humiliation around each cradle and something in my mother’s eyes as she gave them to us made me want to look away in shame.