Black spots

I was doing the final meditation in yoga yesterday and it was really interesting. I was visualizing peace and healing, and then, once I visualized it inside me, there was a dark blob growing in the center, a sickness.

I know what that soul-sickness is and I have to find a way to heal it.

That is my rage and my loss and my sorrow over my daughter. Right now I'm so angry at her that I could scream with it. I haven't spoken to her in 3 months now -- the longest without any contact in her entire life. I have her phone number, I could call, but what would I say? I wish you weren't a compulsive liar? I wish you were a real person? You've hurt me deeper than anyone on Earth could and you don't even have the capacity to care about that?

What I really want to say is that I raised her better than that. As illogical as it is, because what is wrong with her is deeper than any outside force, it's true. I want to shake her and tell her I did my best and I raised her better. That we deserve to have what all the other parents we know have and I resent her for denying me the good parts of being a mother. I resent the fact that, when people ask me if I have children, I say no because that's easier than saying I had one who's done everything in her power to retroactively abort herself and destroy the good memories I have because they're all tainted with lies now.

I'm trying very hard to discover that heartspace that forgives and doesn't forget. Because, given a second's opportunity, she will hurt me again. That's what she does. It gives her pleasure to do it, makes her feel in control, makes her happy to see me cry.

So I have to find peace with the fact that there is no happy ending.

That there is just going to be an ending and that I will never get to believe that my child loves me again.

Because she doesn't.

And worst of all, I'm pretty sure she never did, because it's not something she knows how to do.