I spent some time with friendgirl. We used to be youths. She is mild and, of, course, has light. Or shall I say “Had Light.” Her light is out—dull eyes—swollen. Like many women, she made the mistake of marrying his mother’s man.
A mama’s boy is a strange creature with distinctive features. He bows down to his Mama and ignores his wife and in that Mama takes delight. Poor excuse for a woman—Mama—you are not from hell—you are from Earth. It’s a horrible feeling to wish another dead —even if it’s only in your head. You just want to be his wife without Mama purposely disturbing your life. Why mama? Why? You will always be his mother. I am his wife. I want you in our lives, but there is something called boundaries. What does my womanhood have to do with you? Why do you want to break me down—I mean bury me—that’s deep?
It’s a sad thing to see a woman lose herself because she married. I really believe it is a childgrown’s responsibility to take care of his or her aged parents, but Mamas should never cause a rift in her childgrowns marriage. Waking up with the intent to take the light out of your son’s wife is not right.
Wives don’t allow your husband’s mother to destroy you—to transfer her black energy to you—it feels like poison running through your veins. Your blood feels thick—clogged—cold—almost frozen—the mere sight of the intruder brings emotions and feelings up in you that you never thought were apart of you.
It’s then that you understand people in prison. Thoughts, if carried out, will put you behind bars, and you will not own a car. Your thoughts are not schemes or themes. You just want peace. You’re being pushed like a doorbell without letup—a dripping faucet is on your head. You’ve lost control, and this Mama knows:
“Oh Son,” she cries, “I don’t know about your wife. She hates me, son. She has come between us. You love me. She is not good enough for you. She is nothing like me. She tells you everything you need to improve. I hear her, but Mama lets you be you. I hate her. I hate her. I hate what she’s doing to you.”
Mama’s peeping at you while she’s involved in her drama. And this is your life day after day. Why do you have to pay for being his wife? You’re willing to take care of his Mama, but your Mom is not like this. She doesn’t even know what you are enduring trying to keep your family together.
You blame his Mama, but after witnessing scene after scene, your eyes are full of him—spineless. He could stop his Mama from persecuting you. He can love both of you. Why does he listen to her talk about you? You get disgusted and enter your bedroom. Your stomach is sick. Your skin, dry. His mother’s man enters and wants you to be his wife—have his way with you. His Way retired. He is on a one way street.
Women in this position may not be in brick and mortar prisons, but mentally they’re in bondage. They enjoy nothing—as they are not mentally or emotionally free. They are in so much pain. They don’t care if they don’t see another day. They don’t even understand that they are alive but dead. True murderers of the soul have shot down another spirit.
We weren’t born to be controlled by humans. Get a hold! Easier said. Depression is numb. People marry into families. You can’t have one without the other. Mama starts competing with her son’s wife. How long must we suffer for trying to love— trying to have a family?
You really want to run—hide. This is another situation where fear is driving—Not you. Oh, Mama, Mama, please get a life. You ran your husband out of your life and married your son.
How long must we suffer trying to love— trying to have a family? This is another situation where fear is driving—Not you.
While looking at friendgirl, my mind takes the scenic route: Flash! Flash! One scene after another. Friendgirl handed me a picture of me. That is when I saw the real me. I returned to the same scene. I saw Mama and her husband staring at me. Mama’s eyes were blinding—but not to me.
“You know what,” I said, “Get out of my seat. This is my car. I’m driving. You ain’t gonna be the death of me! I don’t give anyone permission to take advantage of me—one way street.”
Vivian Dixon Sober
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