In my previous post, we were on my understanding. How I began to understand the various turning points, decisions and processes in my life. That I had been living my life in the dead space of myself.
For example, I have read the story of my birth many times, but only now have I really understood it. So far, it was such a ‘fun’ little story, I was glad my mum wrote so well.
Only, in the meantime, I went through that particular hellish journey, and set off on a wild ride of self-discovery, so wild that I now see, fighting back tears, that I was an unexpected child, and that my arrival was even experienced as a drama, they thought I had a fever, they wanted to abort me, I almost died from the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, and when I refused to give birth, the doctor finally pushed me into the world by hitting me with two elbows on my mother’s stomach.
They didn’t let me stall then, just as life didn’t let me stall now…
I’m glad my mum was able to write all this down. She wrote it with love, but I’m glad she had a subconscious. In the title, for example, she even writes with a small “a” that it’s a creation. Like a simple plot. Later on, he makes it my name: Spontaneous Creation.
And then I haven’t even mentioned the compulsion to conform, which I bring in nicely, for example, from the maternal pattern that emerges in my writing, and of course from my later upbringing and socialization…
The use of the word “see” by mum is also interesting. It could also refer to a prison, or divorced parents…
My mother, of course, eventually took full responsibility for me, and the pattern began, which I have followed faithfully throughout my life.
The compulsion to conform, the heroic attitude, victimhood, the need to heal relationships, abuse, relationship dependency, etc.
“Emotional security starts in foetal life. How was I conceived, how was I expected? How much did my mother show her love through her words or actions, how intimate was the family atmosphere? Did my parents believe in me, did they encourage me? They accompany us throughout our lives and determine not only our emotional intelligence but also our self-esteem, our choices in life, our readiness to give and receive love. For so many people this is damaged, even though the parent wanted the best. But they could only pass on what they had. The healing process for these wounded people can be overwritten, reprogrammed through a process of rebirth meditation.”
baratszilvifeeling.hu
Then my mother was left alone with me, just as I was left alone with my children.
My mother’s relationship struggles early on encouraged me to be a good husband. I did everything I could to make that happen. But it was also in the wrong pattern, so the relationship struggles came one by one…
Well, let’s take a step back!
I was not yet four years old when my father left us, and I was barely forty when I learned from a notary summons to a probate hearing that he was no longer alive.
Nothing in between.
So much of what I’ve been aware of in my life so far is obviously why I wanted to be a good father.
A good father and a good husband. So that was the programme.
But I ignored the little child who stuck her nose to the window pane countless times, waiting for Daddy to come home as promised. To me. Of course, he never came…
I had no idea until then that my soul had exploded. Then again.
That little boy is very seriously injured. Again.
It was not realised that that little child had unconsciously grown up with the idea that he had been abandoned, that he was unlovable. And that’s why he (also) became subservient, that’s why he (also) got into games, that’s why he (also) praised almost everyone else instead of himself, that’s why he (also) sought heroes, that’s why he (also) wanted to fit in all his life, that’s why he (also) wanted to heal all his relationships, that’s why he (also) became victimized, abused and, as I later found out, abusive himself on some level.
My father left not only us, but himself. He ended up a miserable alcoholic. It was a relatively easy decision at that particular probate hearing. All he left me was a debt.
And the previously unrecognised distance between perceived and real love…
My mother recently told me that my father was once called to the police station in Budaörs. We went with him. At the time, it was a criminal offence to be a labour escapee. The policeman threatened my father.
I now know why I could never be myself, even though I never fitted into the coat my mother had tried to put on me all my life. She tried like hell to keep me from being like my father. She wasn’t trying to raise me against him, she just didn’t want me to be like him.
In return, I’m just starting to explore what I’m like?
So who am I really?
Why am I giving myself up?
Because I hope that my story can give you something too. For I have confessed since I walked through hell
healing is the best way to heal, and teaching is the best way to learn.
The time has come for us all to get off our own little merry-go-rounds.
Update: Today, on 15 June 2025, Father’s Day, something has unravelled.
