I Ain't Missing You: When a Song Becomes a Wound

Marina Aris
Mar 4
4 min read

I miss my mother after all. I love and hate her at once. I pity and admire her. I long for her and I wish she were dead.

How can one person create so many conflicting emotions?

She is the stinging wound inside my heart of hearts, the place where nothing can reach. She ripped through me with her selfish greed for love and power—two things she could never handle.

I wake and I know she is gone, but only from my sight. She remains in my mind and in the tormented parts of my heart and soul.

A mother, like no one else, has the first opportunity to offer and receive love from her children. That opportunity was denied to me.

The Song That Breaks Me

I'm listening to one of my music playlists. The John Waite's song just came up:

"Missing You"—the one song that always makes me think of my mother and breaks my heart all over again.

Is today a day to be haunted by her?

Maybe I can't run from her or my past any longer.

Isn't that what memoir is?

Facing the past—the good, the bad, and the horrific.

The song talks about sending signals, and I know that I can no longer do so. But I also know that I no longer want the broken connection that simply breaks me.

I was 12 when I first dedicated this song to my mother. On that day, which I remember so clearly, I broke down. The pain was unbearable. On some days it is still unbearable, but only on some days and at moments when I least expect it.

For once, maybe the chorus of the song finally fits: "I ain't missing you at all."

What This Teaches Us About Memoir and Emotional Triggers

This raw journal entry, written nearly two decades ago, captures something essential about the memoir process:

you can't outrun your story, but you can change your relationship to it.

The Contradictions Are the Truth

"I love and hate her at once. I pity and admire her. I long for her and I wish she were dead."

This is what honest memoir sounds like. Not neat, resolved feelings, but the messy, contradictory truth of loving someone who hurt you. Don't clean this up in your writing—these contradictions are what make memoir believable.

Music as Time Machine and Trigger

"I was 12 when I first dedicated this song to my mother."

Certain songs, smells, places, or objects become emotional landmines. They transport you instantly back to the worst moments. In memoir, these sensory triggers are gold—they're the details that help readers feel what you felt.

The Memoir Question

"Maybe I can't run from her or my past any longer. Isn't that what memoir is? Facing the past—the good, the bad, and the horrific."

Yes. This is exactly what memoir is. Not running anymore. Not hiding. Not pretending the pain doesn't exist. Facing it, writing it, and in the process, changing your relationship to it.

The Shift from "Missing You" to "I Ain't Missing You"

This is the arc of healing captured in a single line. At 12, I was still sending signals, still hoping for connection. By the time I wrote this entry, I was beginning to let go of that broken connection.

That shift—from longing to release—is often the emotional arc of trauma memoir.

Writing Your Emotional Triggers

If you're writing memoir, pay attention to your triggers:

What songs, smells, places, or objects instantly transport you back?

These are your sensory anchors. Use them in your memoir to ground readers in specific moments.

What did you dedicate, claim, or attach meaning to as a child?

The 12-year-old me dedicating "Missing You" to my mother—that's a heartbreaking detail that expresses my longing and pain.

How has your relationship to the trigger changed?

The shift from "missing you" to "I ain't missing you" indicates growth. Track how your feelings have evolved over time.

When do the triggers still catch you off guard?"

On some days it is still unbearable but only on some days and at moments when I least expect it."

This honesty matters. Healing isn't linear.

The Mother Wound

"A mother, like no one else, has the first opportunity to give and take love from her children. That opportunity she denied me."

The mother wound is one of memoir's most universal themes. Readers who've never experienced this specific trauma will still recognize this pain—the longing for a mother who couldn't or wouldn't love you.