My ability to believe in a kind God-the-Father who loved me was blocked by my own experience of my parents, and the commandment to honour my parents was the dam that prevented me overcoming those archetypes and setting myself free. Only when my mother died, and the necessity of adhering to the commandment seemed to fall away, could I painfully and slowly begin to remake my own idea of what a mother should be, of what Mary, the Mother of God, might be.  Only when I confronted my father and cried over his failures, could I cut myself free from the hopeless search in him for fathering, and allow myself to feel free to experience the love of the father I never had.

First I had to face up to what my mother was, all that she was able to be, and how short she fell.  Then I have to feel the pain of that reality, of being the emotionally unmothered child, cutting off to cauterise the pain and to neutralise the competition-to-death from my sister.  At at the same time discovering that imperative sense of what I needed as a child in order to feel loved.  In discovering my innate knowledge of what a loving mother is, I come face to face with the Sweet Kissing Madonna.

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