Satirical Play On The Poem ‘If’, About My Mum

Last Updated on 24 April 2022 by Leon Rowan

Rudyard Kipling authored the poem ‘If’ and you can read it here, along with background information:

If – Wikipedia

My mother sent a copy of the poem to me on my 18th birthday.

My mother – the worst woman I have ever known – along with my father – the worst man I have ever known – was a key reason I developed severe mental health problems in early life and young adulthood. They also adversely affected my physical health. For example, I was not born deaf, but became deaf as a young child due to parental neglect and abuse. At age 25 I was diagnosed as being in the worst category of emotionally damaged and traumatised individuals, being prescribed prescription drugs by mental health professionals who despaired of how to help me – they had no idea. Succinctly, I never took any drugs, instead learning how the deep mind works and healing mine.

Today my clients include doctors and mental health professionals and even a martial arts Grand Master, so I am now at the ‘other end of the scale’. I also enjoy the deep respect of seasoned special forces officers, NCOs and operators who are professionally aware of the importance of the mind.

I am extremely grateful for the suffering I endured because without it I would not know the beautiful things I do today. Scientifically, it is empirically correct to blame my parents for a lot of what I went through. However, importantly, it has been my responsibility to fix the mess my parents made.

This poem, which is a work in progress, provides some insights into my lived experience. While my mentoring skills can help people with anything from improving their golf score (I am terrible at golf – my handicap would be 140 plus I expect), I have an especial passion for helping people overcome their suffering. And I mean genuinely overcome – not mask it with drugs or some kind of weird ‘mental gymnastics’ such as embracing mental ill health and being ‘glad’ one has the problem.

Poor parenting is an extremely severe, and common, problem and I have a particular dislike of it, because I know how damaging it is. If you are suffering because I it, I have a message of hope. It is not only possible to recover, but to experience deep joy which bubbles up from within, without ‘effort’.

If you had loved me,
Despite what I did,
like Granny Jean.

If you had loved me better,
Than the Cat did.

If you had loved me enough as a young child,
To get me psychological help,
Instead of threatening,
That men in white coats and a van,
Would take me away.

If you had cared enough,
To see me from age 10,
Until age 25 when I sought you out,
Apart from 2 lunch visits,
Age 16 at boarding school.

If you didn’t repeatedly slander me,
Falsely claiming I am what I am not.

If you proudly introduced me to people,
Instead of hiding me away,
In case people saw how nice I am,
And disbelieved your lying narratives.

If you hadn’t made trouble with my father,
So he would disinherit me.

If you hadn’t worked so hard to undermine,
My relationships with other family members, and friends.

If you hadn’t pretended the gold sovereigns,
You ‘gave’ me on my 18th birthday were from you,
When instead they were bought with my birthday money as a child.

If you hadn’t given me two cartons of menthol cigarettes on my 18th birthday,
Did you have no concern for my health?

If you hadn’t lied about your so-called spiritual gifts and knowledge,
And failed the secret tests I set for you.

If you didn’t on the one hand complain bitterly about my rotten father,
Yet spend lots of time with your other son who is like him (worse than him).

If you didn’t try to blame me for problems with your own father,
And didn’t try to alter my (true) awareness of how much Granny loved me.

If you didn’t have such hate for me,
Clearly visible in your unguarded eyes.

If you had given the Colonel, my stepfather and bravest man I ever knew,
Another chance on that Glastonbury day, decades ago.

If you weren’t so full of crap and duplicity,
Yet so pleasant to others on the surface.

If not, I wouldn’t have thought of calling you ‘Lavatory’.
A bit posh, lovely looking on the outside, but full of shit inside.
And you would be a Mother, my mum!

Ann De Jersey.

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