keep my heart somewhere drugs don't go ...
These thoughts are kind of circling in my head and I need to get them out so forgive me yet again for a very long entry. I mean it when I say that I was a happy child in spite of seeing things I probably shouldn't have and I'm not being tough when I say that those memories don't hurt in the way that they used to. But it's impossible to go through experiences like that and come out completely undamaged and, although I've never actually sat down and hammered this out, certain things sort of make sense now. My three biggest insecurities in this life are 1.) not being enough for someone, always being scared people will get bored and move on, 2.) my body image, 3.) doing nothing significant with my life.
At least two of those are related to my mother. While I've never felt worthless and I certainly don't sit and dwell on these things every day, I've never once understood why my mother made the decisions she did. How could she possibly look at me, a tiny child defenseless and in need of protection, and walk away? How could her addiction to drugs be stronger than her love for me? It might seem silly and it is, to a degree, because I'm not stupid, I know how addictions work. But I guess I just wish I had been enough to make her change. For it to be repulsive to her that she might miss watching her baby girl turn into a woman.
But maybe what hurts even more than the ease with which she seemed to have abandoned me is that when she finally did reenter my life, she didn't do anything and everything in her power to cultivate a relationship with me that was sorely lacking. I have never, not once in my life, been a priority in my mother's life. When I first started staying with her again, which was her longest stretch of sobriety at the time, she always put her religion above me. At a time when I so desperately needed to hear that she loved me and that there wasn't a thing in this world more important to her than me, she looked right past me and straight towards God. When she wasn't worshipping God, she was worshipping her abusive husband and it didn't matter to her that he made me uncomfortable and that I thought he was a bad person.
More than that, when I was a teenager, trudging my way through trying to be a girl, dress the right way, wear the right make up, she had no hesitation in letting me know that I was overweight. When I came to her, looking towards the ground and saying how much I needed to lose weight, rather than telling me how I was her beautiful little girl and how she'd love me no matter what I looked like, her response to my very insecure, incredibly shy self was, "Well, you know what you need to do ..."
I said and did things that were awful because I was bitter. She called me a bitch once and I likely deserved it. I took all of these frustrations, all of my rejected feelings out on her. There was ... so much anger that I had bottled up inside of me. I wanted to scream and rage and say, "Look at me! I am your daughter and you don't have a single clue as to who I am or what I've been through! Why aren't you livid??" I know I'm making her out to sound awful and, for awhile there, maybe she was ... she's not that person anymore and she's tried to be there for me but we still go months without talking and even longer without seeing each other. I've never even met the man she's been married to for about five years, for God's sake. Maybe I was cold to her one too many times or said the wrong things but, damn it, I've tried. I have tried to make up for lashing out at her when I felt hurt and alone. Most of all, I leapt over the biggest hurdle I possibly could and let go of my anger. I washed it away. So how ... how have we gotten to this state where it's okay for a mother and daughter to keep only the most minimal of contact? Why is it okay?
It stopped hurting a long time ago and I will always love my mother, but I can't help but sit and wonder sometimes.
At least two of those are related to my mother. While I've never felt worthless and I certainly don't sit and dwell on these things every day, I've never once understood why my mother made the decisions she did. How could she possibly look at me, a tiny child defenseless and in need of protection, and walk away? How could her addiction to drugs be stronger than her love for me? It might seem silly and it is, to a degree, because I'm not stupid, I know how addictions work. But I guess I just wish I had been enough to make her change. For it to be repulsive to her that she might miss watching her baby girl turn into a woman.
But maybe what hurts even more than the ease with which she seemed to have abandoned me is that when she finally did reenter my life, she didn't do anything and everything in her power to cultivate a relationship with me that was sorely lacking. I have never, not once in my life, been a priority in my mother's life. When I first started staying with her again, which was her longest stretch of sobriety at the time, she always put her religion above me. At a time when I so desperately needed to hear that she loved me and that there wasn't a thing in this world more important to her than me, she looked right past me and straight towards God. When she wasn't worshipping God, she was worshipping her abusive husband and it didn't matter to her that he made me uncomfortable and that I thought he was a bad person.
More than that, when I was a teenager, trudging my way through trying to be a girl, dress the right way, wear the right make up, she had no hesitation in letting me know that I was overweight. When I came to her, looking towards the ground and saying how much I needed to lose weight, rather than telling me how I was her beautiful little girl and how she'd love me no matter what I looked like, her response to my very insecure, incredibly shy self was, "Well, you know what you need to do ..."
I said and did things that were awful because I was bitter. She called me a bitch once and I likely deserved it. I took all of these frustrations, all of my rejected feelings out on her. There was ... so much anger that I had bottled up inside of me. I wanted to scream and rage and say, "Look at me! I am your daughter and you don't have a single clue as to who I am or what I've been through! Why aren't you livid??" I know I'm making her out to sound awful and, for awhile there, maybe she was ... she's not that person anymore and she's tried to be there for me but we still go months without talking and even longer without seeing each other. I've never even met the man she's been married to for about five years, for God's sake. Maybe I was cold to her one too many times or said the wrong things but, damn it, I've tried. I have tried to make up for lashing out at her when I felt hurt and alone. Most of all, I leapt over the biggest hurdle I possibly could and let go of my anger. I washed it away. So how ... how have we gotten to this state where it's okay for a mother and daughter to keep only the most minimal of contact? Why is it okay?
It stopped hurting a long time ago and I will always love my mother, but I can't help but sit and wonder sometimes.