During
my childhood I always noticed something strange about the behavior of my mother to me and to my advanced age I did not know what it was: my mother was possessed by rage, a rage extreme, unconscious and quiet. This anger is still present, although more meaning in my genes. pain I remember when my mother got angry with me, I remember your face, remember his facial expressions that I studied his eyes wide open. My mother was my goddess and all that it was my turn to or lived near and arrows that someone had embedded in my skin. For children the parents are all powerful mystical characters. They have the right to life and death over our lives and our feelings.
remember my mother's anger over me like a heavy black cloak and lived my life for many years and continued to inhabit my days though I had left home, just to escape from this rage that messing around, the grisaceava everything. It was a rage, bound, controlled, very black. My mother was a monster and bad girl while she did the impossible for rabies not inundated or not do him lose his head. This, in those days I did not know. This I learned little by little, studying my own anger, the legacy of my mother and my father. Since my father was possessed by it, but instead he let go of control and screaming with all his might. My father was the ogre of my childhood.
Why so angry? I wonder now from space that separates me from them, from this spot produced by the years, his death and my own inner journey. The misery of my parents I know it was real, and very few happy times I've seen between them. Continuous fights swollen by rage sent me the sad message of a man and a woman's relationship was not possible. My mother hated men and did not stop to say to my sister and me that they were crooks. My idea about them has changed, but after a long time. I mean, for many years followed the almighty words My mother and my way was just men scoundrels. Then, when mature saw that my mother had lied.
The only place of peace, from my childhood, I found in books. I, by force of things, addicted to reading. A psychologist told me one day that my passion for reading was because I found them knowledge that is power. Not true. In books I found the peace and quiet, this place of meditation and inner recollection that my parents and their endless fights could not offer. reading calmed my fears, my heart, my fear of this child and monstrous evil that produced the anger of my mother. My books were my allies, along with my loneliness. Today I am happy when I'm alone, and alone with books.
But I say, my mother left me a rage that is present in me, in my genes. When I look out her face in surprise, eyes wide open face. Sometimes I apologize to exist, sometimes I appreciate your presence is to me a mirror of reflection and knowledge. Sometimes I hate it with a force that could bring down bridges and mountains. But I always calming picking up a book, going into the pages and at sea, enjoying peace with infinite patience, always just ahead.
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