Mothers Day
My continuing struggle, over thirty years later, is what part did I play? How much fault do I actually bear? Bare?
On the one hand, I was a needy, angry, pathologically self-centered, emotionally immature and disturbed kid. And I genuinely think I would have been that way no matter who my parents were. It feels sometimes like I was absolutely determined to lead a sad life. Everybody experiences tragedy in one form or another. I seem to glom onto mine with Krazy Glue and stick there forever. I was definitely one of the people Mom meant to harm with her suicide, because I caused her such grief and disappointment.
So it wasn't really her fault. It would not have gone down that way if I had been a different person. If I had offered her kindness and understanding instead of being exasperated with her continuing depression. I was randomly just plain mean. Some days I tried. Once or twice I screamed obscenities at her. I never got violent, but I made life miserable for everyone around me. And that was before she killed herself. Afterwards, I got worse for about a year.
Dad was so angry at me that he couldn't hide it. I could not do a single thing right. Even his psychiatrist mentioned he was being a little hard on me. I know this because Dad came home from that appointment and said, "He thinks I'm being too hard on you. What do you think?" I said he was fine and I never noticed anything. I didn't. I hated me too. That he blamed me and was unbelievably angry made perfect sense to me. He wasn't violent, so I figured he was doing better than I expected.
On the other hand, on my better days, I think HEY! I was THE KID Goddamnit. Yes, I was a pain in the ass, but I was a teenager. I was SUPPOSED to be a pain in the ass. That's part of how some people separate their identities from their parents. They had five kids before me. Apparently, I was worse than all five of them. And that, I also believe. The gay thing complicated everything. The minor but long-term sexual abuse that my parents did not know about had left me confused and angry and I lashed out. They had reason to be bewildered, hurt, and disappointed. Looking back I really cannot blame them.
But I was THE KID. They were THE ADULTS. They were supposed to get me through my adolescence relatively unscathed. I believe that's part of the job description for parents.
And on days when I really need to, I remind myself that I did not pull the trigger. Mom put the gun to her own head and made the decision to shoot. She has to take the lion's share of the responsibility for the mess she made.
If I had just died at birth, it wouldn't have happened. I was born 2 months premature and they had to take risks and extraordinary measures to keep me alive. They were so good at the beginning stages of parenting that I lived without physical or mental impairments. That part of the story always confuses me. They fought hard for me when I was a baby. They put intense effort into getting me through the toddler stage. I wasn't easy from the very start.
But once I got to grade school, something changed. It's like they ran out of energy and patience. They forgot me places. I remember being out on the street watching the streetlights go out, wondering why my other friends had to be home by that time. If I had just died then, it would have been better for everybody. It wasn't that they didn't love and care for me, it was just they were overwhelmed caregivers. That's a term they use for animal hoarders who start out with the best of intentions, but end up with 100 cats and emotional resources stretched so thin they qualify as mentally ill.
That's what my parents were. They started out with the absolute best of intentions. Somewhere along the line they realized that either six kids was one too many or that number six was not the kind of kid they were emotionally prepared to deal with. As a form of self-protection, they took a step back. They were human. They did not have inexhaustible resources, and my particular combination of need and guilt and anger ended up exhausting them. And that was before I hit the teenaged tempest.
But. I. Was. The. Kid.
As much as I wish I could go back in time and strangle my baby self in my crib and avoid all of this. As much as I truly understand people who sue their parents for "wrongful life" suits. We didn't fucking ask for this. The parents foisted it upon us. They took on the job of guiding us through childhood. As much as I recognize my particular parents were humans who were doing the absolute best they could, and they really did great in most situations. I'm still confused.
It's a kaleidoscope of pain that I can turn, sometimes at will, sometimes not, to focus more on the red of anger, the green of guilt, the black of grief, the occasional glimmers of hope and relief, then twisting back to every shade of blue.
Fucking Mothers Day. I hate it.
On the one hand, I was a needy, angry, pathologically self-centered, emotionally immature and disturbed kid. And I genuinely think I would have been that way no matter who my parents were. It feels sometimes like I was absolutely determined to lead a sad life. Everybody experiences tragedy in one form or another. I seem to glom onto mine with Krazy Glue and stick there forever. I was definitely one of the people Mom meant to harm with her suicide, because I caused her such grief and disappointment.
So it wasn't really her fault. It would not have gone down that way if I had been a different person. If I had offered her kindness and understanding instead of being exasperated with her continuing depression. I was randomly just plain mean. Some days I tried. Once or twice I screamed obscenities at her. I never got violent, but I made life miserable for everyone around me. And that was before she killed herself. Afterwards, I got worse for about a year.
Dad was so angry at me that he couldn't hide it. I could not do a single thing right. Even his psychiatrist mentioned he was being a little hard on me. I know this because Dad came home from that appointment and said, "He thinks I'm being too hard on you. What do you think?" I said he was fine and I never noticed anything. I didn't. I hated me too. That he blamed me and was unbelievably angry made perfect sense to me. He wasn't violent, so I figured he was doing better than I expected.
On the other hand, on my better days, I think HEY! I was THE KID Goddamnit. Yes, I was a pain in the ass, but I was a teenager. I was SUPPOSED to be a pain in the ass. That's part of how some people separate their identities from their parents. They had five kids before me. Apparently, I was worse than all five of them. And that, I also believe. The gay thing complicated everything. The minor but long-term sexual abuse that my parents did not know about had left me confused and angry and I lashed out. They had reason to be bewildered, hurt, and disappointed. Looking back I really cannot blame them.
But I was THE KID. They were THE ADULTS. They were supposed to get me through my adolescence relatively unscathed. I believe that's part of the job description for parents.
And on days when I really need to, I remind myself that I did not pull the trigger. Mom put the gun to her own head and made the decision to shoot. She has to take the lion's share of the responsibility for the mess she made.
If I had just died at birth, it wouldn't have happened. I was born 2 months premature and they had to take risks and extraordinary measures to keep me alive. They were so good at the beginning stages of parenting that I lived without physical or mental impairments. That part of the story always confuses me. They fought hard for me when I was a baby. They put intense effort into getting me through the toddler stage. I wasn't easy from the very start.
But once I got to grade school, something changed. It's like they ran out of energy and patience. They forgot me places. I remember being out on the street watching the streetlights go out, wondering why my other friends had to be home by that time. If I had just died then, it would have been better for everybody. It wasn't that they didn't love and care for me, it was just they were overwhelmed caregivers. That's a term they use for animal hoarders who start out with the best of intentions, but end up with 100 cats and emotional resources stretched so thin they qualify as mentally ill.
That's what my parents were. They started out with the absolute best of intentions. Somewhere along the line they realized that either six kids was one too many or that number six was not the kind of kid they were emotionally prepared to deal with. As a form of self-protection, they took a step back. They were human. They did not have inexhaustible resources, and my particular combination of need and guilt and anger ended up exhausting them. And that was before I hit the teenaged tempest.
But. I. Was. The. Kid.
As much as I wish I could go back in time and strangle my baby self in my crib and avoid all of this. As much as I truly understand people who sue their parents for "wrongful life" suits. We didn't fucking ask for this. The parents foisted it upon us. They took on the job of guiding us through childhood. As much as I recognize my particular parents were humans who were doing the absolute best they could, and they really did great in most situations. I'm still confused.
It's a kaleidoscope of pain that I can turn, sometimes at will, sometimes not, to focus more on the red of anger, the green of guilt, the black of grief, the occasional glimmers of hope and relief, then twisting back to every shade of blue.
Fucking Mothers Day. I hate it.