This was a very painful poem for me to write - it was my own catharsis. As in XAIPEIN, I used some of the images that my father uses to express the meaning of poetry in this work. (See the introduction to XAIPEIN, also on these pages, for that explanation.)

My mother and I have long had a somewhat stormy relationship, fed, in part, because I was rather more observant as a child than she gave me credit for, and tended to overhear things she did not expect or desire me to hear. This has been fed by a few tendencies which I have problems with - my mother, for example, is always right. When I pointed out to her that she was always right, she spent the next several weeks pointing out every single small error she made with a "See! I was wrong about that!"

Somehow, this did not manage to help.

My mother is also never pleased with anything. No matter how carefully chosen the gift or hard one works, the atmosphere about her is, "Well, it's not what I wanted, but I suppose I'll have to make do with it," all carefully hidden behind a small smile. This attitude shaped aspects of my self-esteem, and is part of the reason behind my parents' impending divorce.

I have been thinking a great deal lately about my past, and the events that came together to shape me into who I am. And I have found that behind most of the reactions I have that I call problems, I have something that is reacting to my mother. I don't like this - I've always prided myself on being an independent-minded person who is in control of her own decisions, and having this much of my psyche tracing back to the love/hate relationship with this parent is upsetting.

The pain that is the root of this poem comes at the end. I was technically an adult when this was told to me, and it still has me shaky with the hurt of it. According to my mother, she did not want a child in 1977 (I was born two weeks late - February 3, 1978; my father says that I have yet to catch up); she had only just gone off the pill for medical reasons. I was a ploy of control in the relationship, by the way she would tell it, unwanted, resented. My brother - well, she wanted him. Not me. I think it would hurt me less if I had felt surprised.