Ouch a Short Story about the Power of a Mother's Words

Art Direction and Photographs by: Catie Menke. Model: Brooke Sexton.

Short Story by: Dyanna Potter
Model: Brooke Sexton
Creative Direction: Catie Menke

She took a sip of tea, and wondered to herself, how to move forward. In the past when the pain had felt this severe she would lash out. She would cry and build the fortress around her heart tighter. Security was doubled, the moat added an extra alligator, cannons at the ready.

In her mind, it was a rational reaction to such a pain. She sipped again. Though the tea was hot she could no longer feel the warmth radiate through her like it did in the past. She felt hardened, and cold.

A mother shouldn’t tell her daughter such hurtful things and yet she does. When her mind flicked back to the memory of last night the sting of tears and the lump in her throat grew. She wasn’t going to cry again. Her eyes were already puffy and felt like a freshly squeezed sponge.

She pulled the sweater tighter around her neck looking for some sort of comfort. Again, reeling from the memory of last night. It wasn’t a new act for her mother to ridicule, tease, and say things that were only funny to her. She was used to her mother’s childish antics and yet after 37 years they still stung.

She knew what to do. Green bush with berries on it. Dried, yellow, leaves. Fresh cool air that smells like the beginning of fall. Tiny, grey squirrel running with a giant bushy tail. Red bird with a little mohawk sitting in the trees. Black gravel crunching beneath the weight of her brown boots.

She began to feel the icy chill surrounding her entire body start to release. She focused on the more minute details of her walk. She sipped her tea and it felt warm. A faint hint of cinnamon and honey filled her mouth.

She smiled. For the first time since her last interaction with her mother. The memory returned this time with vengeance. The words her mother cackled at, still fresh. Her mother’s favorite phrases, “I’m just kidding.” “Don’t take it so seriously.” “I knew you were going to freak out.” Followed by a laugh, hollow of the healing powers that laughter has.

Throughout her life, her mother would push her to the point of explosion. She knew every button, every phrase and every memory to get her to her breaking point.

It started when she was young and escalated to an alarming level when she was a teenager. So, she left. Like most people would. She ran as far away as she could, hence why she’s here. Where the leaves change colors, the air is cool, and the days are short.

She walked. Despite the desire to sit and cry and wallow in the pain. She was going to her favorite spot on her property. The tiny pond that sounded like relief. The water bubbled gently. Surrounded by little sprouts of maple trees, tiny yet strong. The water ran from a smooth creek, down a small set of black boulders, and pooled. It made the most glorious sound. The way the water clapped together and dripped. Water had a way of making her escape the world. Even this tiny water feature. It was ultimately why she decided to buy such a big property.

This tiny little pond. It helped set in motion the healing she desperately desired. It had a way of always being what she needed right when she needed it. She sat in her favorite spot, a log perfectly set to watch the tiny waterfall. She could hear birds, the water, the breeze loosening the leaves. Even when the water froze over every winter it still held its power.

Right now, it was still warm enough for her to listen to and spot a dragonfly drinking. She took her sweater off, and just sat and watched.

The memory of last night came back but without the gut punching sting. The all too familiar feeling of having the wind knocked out of her by her mother’s words still hurt. Even after all these years. She began to question everything like why did she even invite her. It was Thanksgiving after all and she wasn’t sure she was entirely grateful for her mother at the moment.

When she was younger, she was relentlessly teased over silly things that don’t define a person’s worth. Her accent, her hair, how skinny her arms were. The one tooth that tucked slightly behind the other. And yet, they were a point of ridicule. All of these memories would come back in waves. They would wash over her, at a steady pace. One after another. The same sting, the same gut punch, the same confusion.

It had taken her years to realize the apology she sought would never come. Instead she learned, through years of agony to validate herself. It was simpler than she imagined and yet it worked, every time.

When her mother would start to unravel and take it out on her, inside she would say, ouch. Ouch to the little girl. Ouch to the teenager, and ouch to the adult. As a young child she couldn’t see the limitations of her mother. She thought that was just what mothers did.

The tiny brook bubbled into the tiny pond.

But as she grew she could see her mother’s knowledge of herself was limited. Her knowledge of her daughter was limited. And her knowledge of the power she held was limited.

But she knew. She knew after years of work how to comfort herself. The inner child needed to be validated and seen and comforted. So, she started there. She recounted memory after memory and after her mother would tease and taunt she inserted her, ouch. Ouch was vulnerable. Ouch was validating. A simple world held the power to feel seen. She felt like the hurt wasn’t dismissed like it had with the “I’m just kidding” phrase. Ouch felt like she could finally say to her mother the exact phrase she needed to hear.

Whether she took it or not was not up to her. Saying ouch throughout her memories helped her rewrite history. After all was said and done, a simple ouch out of each of the versions of her echoed loudly. She was able to give herself the words she needed to hear. She reminded herself that she was loveable and worthy of validation.

And today. She did it again. As she chose to replay the memory with the brook as background music. She said it. Ouch. She was acknowledging her hurt. She wasn’t running or defensive. She was simply hurt.

One tear starting to build up in her eye, she felt her pulse quicken. She closed her eyes. The lump in her throat grew again. She leaned her head back, and reclined into the log. The water bubbled, soothing, and calm, and her stomach churned.

This was the worst part. Feeling.

She opened her eyes, and the tears flowed. Just like the brook, dripping and splashing. She put her sweater back on. The breeze had picked up and she could feel the cool air rushing around her bare arms. She could feel, everything. The pain, the agony, the visceral reactions, and the cool air.

She reminded herself. You are here. You built this beautiful life with your bare hands. That hurt is valid. She honored her sensitive heart. She told herself, as she pulled the sweater tighter.

The grip around her throat loosened. Inhale. The tears slowed. Exhale. Her pulse turned to normal. Inhale. Her stomach wasn’t upset. Exhale.

She opened her eyes and stared lovingly at the pond. She felt warmth in her heart, and the icy chill replaced by comfort. She looked around at the life she created. She relished in her accomplishments. She praised her inner work. She hugged the younger version of herself. She could feel the other versions of herself going through the same release. She could feel them all exhale a sigh of relief.

As she stood and looked around full of gratitude she took a step forward and immediately paused. Inhale. You are kind. Exhale. You are tender and loving. Inhale. Who you are is not defined by others. Exhale. You are courageous, and unmoving. Inhale. Exhale.

She walked back to her house, admiring every beautiful color and movement along the way. She stepped onto her back porch one creaky step at a time and opened the back door.