Smack

A while ago, I did something I never thought I would; I joined a mens group!

The truth is that for a while, it felt good and served its purpose; I would even describe it as helpful on occasions. But then I started to notice a worrying pattern; week after week, the same issues would surface, the same conversations would be had leading to the same results.

It quickly started to feel like being trapped in the spin cycle of life, drowning in the dirty regrets of ones actions, ensuring that nothing moved forward, enabling all to soak in a self-imposed pity.

But for me, the straw that broke the camel's back was a reoccurring story that I never could understand. It was the story of mothers and how their actions while parenting had scarred these men for life.

Deep down, it annoyed the hell out of me; the simple fact that we could still blame others, our parents, who probably did the best they could with what they had, just made no sense. It left me saddened; when do we take responsibility for our actions? 

But there lies the problem, who do we blame for our actions if we have no one to blame? 

The answer is quite simple in reality, as there is only one person left in the room once the mirrors of the past prove to be just a shattered illusion.

That person is ourselves.

But this talk of the scars that our parents left on our souls got me thinking about my mother.

She was a married woman with three young children in tow and the day she decided to protect us from a violent man, she became a single mother with three young children in tow. Sacrificing her dreams in a heartbeat for the ones she felt bound to protect.

From that point on, life was never going to be easy for her. She would need to make tough decisions daily; there was never going to be enough even though she worked three jobs for us to survive.

We lived in a caravan park, which she made our home. We lived in a broken-down rental property, which she made our home, and finally, we lived in a government commission house, which she transformed into our home.

She was there even when she could not be, due to working so many part-time jobs. She was the loudest voice on the sidelines at most sporting events, lovingly picking up the pieces of all our wins and losses. 

She would drive me to wherever I had to go to compete, even if that meant push-starting the car, which was half the fun for a boy like me. I can't imagine what it looked like but I know what it felt like.

She was both my parents, which could not have been easy. She would hold me tight when needed and clip me under the ears, taking the wooden spoon to my butt when deserved. Yes, I was that young boy who thought that setting fire to the grass in the backyard was a better idea than mowing it. I was the boy who shot fireworks at passing cars, snuck out at night, did just enough at school and far too much after. Yes, I was not an easy young man to raise. But she did, without question or complaint. 

She taught me respect, please and thank you. She helped me to navigate my way through life's twisting and perilous terrain, always giving me enough room to make better choices. Never stifling the wild dreams that make young men believe they can be more than their circumstances.

She was far from perfect, but neither was I.

Now, looking back on it, it turns out that my mother did all she could, did everything she believed to be right to guide a young boy who was quickly becoming a man; and for that, I can only say thank you. I love you.

Not all parents are perfect, some are kind, and some struggle to express it. Some leave scars; some create love. But I would like to think that they all did the best they could with what they had.

Not perfect, but who really is?