Compassionate Hate

A time that I have long awaited is coming upon me, and it doesn't feel exactly the way I had greatly anticipated.  The man that I have called stepfather for the greater part of my life, has lived with one foot in the grave for nearly two years.  He is now dipping his second foot into the soil, like a bathing beauty testing the water before a dive, and I am not elated.  I am not feeling the urge to break into a  joyful dance around a crackling fire, like the wild native of an undiscovered Amazonian tribe, as I once said that I would. 

But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at myself.  After all, I have spent the last fifteen years developing the most beautiful relationship with my higher spirit, and all that I am today contradicts the hate that I've always carried for him.  I cannot say that I love him, for the man that he has shown himself to be for all these years.  But, I do feel a great compassion, as one child of God to another, for my fellow human being, who now stands at the edge of his life.  Even for one like me, who looks very forward to my own crossing, and has no fear of the transition into the next existence... the process of the physical death (from the perspective of human, not spirit) can be a very frightening experience.  And I feel for him.  And I pray for him.

It tears at my heart that my mother isn't able to participate in, what could be, the most healing moments of all of our lives.  Having to care for him, as his health rapidly declines, is difficult at best, and she struggles with it.  But she could be using the process as a means of taking back the power that he had wrestled away from her all years ago, with a closed fist and hurtful words.

Unfortunately, she is now incapable of anything positive.  Her life has been filled with bitter regret, depression, and an inconsolable anger for at least a decade, maybe more.  To my sister and I, she has become him.  She will hunt you down, when the mood strikes, and ambush your unsuspecting spirit with her vengeful rage.  Belittle, demeaning, insulting.  For my sister, it is debilitating.  She takes the words to heart, and suffers deeply.  For me, it is a test of my compassion.  I don't hear her words for what they appear to be on the surface, I hear where they came from, and the pain that they represent, and I forgive her.  Even in the moment that she tears me down, I ask for Angels to build her up.

We all want to leave our mark on the world, something that proves that we walked here, we ran here, we fell here.  When my wicked stepfather leaves, he leaves behind a replica of himself, in female form, to carry on his mission of filling the world with hate.  And my revenge on him will be love.