com·pas·sion (k m-p sh n)
n.
Deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.
I didn’t realize that the depth of compassion equals the height of awareness, yet this confirms the way my mother responded to my abuse.
Who knew that in order to be compassionate, you have to have a higher level of awareness and that you have to be able to see and hear and understand what happened?
Without this awareness you simply can’t respond in kind…instead you appear indifferent, for you can’t reach the level needed for the scope of pain present.
And it definitely feels you are uncaring and unkind and unresponsive to our pain, that it simply doesn’t matter enough…all we feel is your lack of awareness.
I sat in my mother’s home and felt the drastic space between what I was aware of and where she was, the bleeding wound I was drowning in and how she seemed to be resting on the shore…how was it possible to witness my pain in such an unmoving way?
Her awareness didn’t allow her to wade into the waters and she didn’t hear me from the shore, the distance was too great.
It is my belief, that if you haven’t gone deep enough into your own pain, if you haven’t gotten your toes wet, it is really hard to have compassion. Or perhaps your level of compassion equals the level of your awareness.
All I wanted from my mother was her eye to see me drowning, her ear to hear my cries or a hand reaching toward me, and in her unawareness…all she seen was a peaceful water scene, gentle waves and children frolicking in life, filled with love and peace…When in reality the seas were angry, the waves fearful and menacing, we struggled to keep our breath.
As we looked upon her, she showed no signs of our distress nor made a move to rescue us.
We were left to fight the ocean of abuse alone…the sea monsters, the brutal crushing waves, the bottomless sea…not able to make it to her shore.
I M Perfect lady 