Filial responsibilities.
Mother's Day is about a month away, a few days less but about a month. My mom is already making a big deal out of it. Moaning about how she never gets anything. And she's right. My brother and I rarely ever do anything for her. And it's true, she does deserve something to show we appreciate her putting up with our shit. We certainly have a lot of it. So yeah, I know I should do something for her.
But I hate Mother's Day. I hate all those simpering cards that say "oh you're such a good friend" and "thanks for always being there for me". I hate them, because all they do is dredge up bad fucking memories. My mom was not always there for me. Sure if it was huge, like a cold and broken bones and bleeding, yeah, she was there. But anything else, it was a toss up.
My mom and I are not friends, never were. We live our own lives and we don't share anything that really matters very often. We never have and I doubt we ever will. It's all just small talk. There are just some things we don't want to know about each other. And this is something both of my parents have said to me, word for word. "There are just some things we don't need to know." This is usually in reference to anything related to sex, including, to some extent relationships.
I used the phrase "abandonment issues" once and got laughed at for it. Regardless of how flippant I am about the subject (as I am aware of how very self-indulgent it is), I keep running into this wall of hurt and pain that I bury because I'm not supposed to acknowledge it. I know nobody wants to hear it. All they'd hear, were I to talk about it, would be accusations. Not necessarily because I was making any, but because no matter how I worded it, that what they'd sound like...what this whole post sounds like.
I was barely a fucking toddler. How was I supposed to understand complex things like a woman spending the night somewhere else to punish her husband? How was I supposed to see anything other than a packed bag and know anything other than the fact that we'd all been yelled at and now mommy was leaving because she was mad? She'd left me before. It was the way she dealt with my tantrums in stores. Effective. Damn effective. She brags about how effective it was.
How was I supposed to understand putting up a front? I was a very open child. I did know how to manipulate my dad into not spanking me, but that's not quite the same thing as humoring a teacher who had nothing but stupid complaints about me. "She lifts her shirt up in class." I folded my arms at my waist and rolled the hem of my shirt up over them. I was in first grade. I never understood what I was doing wrong or why it was such a big deal. To this day, I still have no idea. I only remember being bribed with stuff to be good for that teacher. It was a "I know she's wrong about you but go do whatever she says anyway" message.
I understood both my parents worked. I understood that they were tired. But I wanted to learn things and learning things was good, right? Why didn't they have time to teach me? Why didn't they want to teach me? I was expected to know things and never ask stupid questions. It's the perfectionist in me that asks questions I sort of know the answer to, just to double-check myself. To see if I know what I think I know. And during cooking lessons especially. My mom would watch me and say in an exasperated tone "you don't have to measure exactly, it's not science"; or in eye-rolling sarcasm "oh it's so hard". How does that help anyone learn anything?
I was left alone. It was easier and harder all at the same time. All the tears I've cried in sorrow my entire life have been because I was alone. Left behind. Friends left all the time; it was an army town. My dad left and stayed out nearly all night - which my brother and I would often bear at least a scorching of my mother's anger over, if we came to her attention. And my mom...she stayed. But I don't remember ever being truly close to her again after that. I think I was always preparing myself for the day she'd leave again. I'd known long before then that I couldn't really rely on my dad. He was the chaos that mixed up the routine. Chaos is fun but it does not equal reliable.
So what do you do? You've been taught, through both words and actions: That grownups lie when it suits them and it can sound absolutely sincere. That you can't count on anyone but yourself if you want something done (especially if you want it done a certain way). You've seen firsthand that friends leave you and, even when they say they'll write, are never heard from again. Add a year or two with a babysitter who hated you because you didn't absolutely adore your little brother (and later realize how that was bullshit because she didn't treat her little brother any different) - the consequences of which were to spend a lot of hours alone in your room, with nothing but your own thoughts and imagination to keep you from being bored to tears. Get used to life like that because even if you told your mom you didn't like spending all day in your room, she'd only take the babysitter's side - whether it was right or not. What walls would you build?
Imagine: How enthusiastic would Mother's Day cards make you?
I remember a few good things. And likely there were lots of things that happened that could've been good memories if either of us had been different people. The simple fact is that my mom and I had completely different viewpoints when I was little. The ways we approached the world and each other were...well, looking back, it was sort of like a missed high-five. That moment of confusion you have after your hands breeze past each other and you wonder how in the world you or the other person missed that, leaving you both unbalanced and, heh, "hanging". Not that we've suddenly synced up now. No, it's just a little easier these days to be open to other people's realities. There is a bitter wound in me because nobody has ever tried to see the world through my eyes, and it's with a bitter laugh I say "who could blame them?".
I know I'm not perfect. That I was a horrible child and a pain in the ass. I know. The conundrum of the fiercely independent child (my first phrase was literally: "I do myself.") who needs help and support in her attempts to learn and discover and explore and find herself. When do you help and when do you back off? And what of the perfectionist? It was hard for me to be grateful when someone helped me and the result fell so far from what I'd wanted. I'd complain that nobody likes me and my parents would make fun of me for it. But it was never very hard for me to believe. I was bossy, stubborn, and selfish. A tiny dictator who thought she knew or could figure out what was best for everyone. I've always liked wielding power but I know what it does to me. I know nobody likes me when I have it. And I know when I have ambition my only goal is to have it. So. Generally like-able slacker with no life goals or determined, uptight, power-hungry bitch? Which could you love? And why is it that wanting someone who knows me, all of me, to love me and only me, is the only thing I've wanted for the past 15 years? Blah.
So no. I don't like Mother's Day. I know I should do something. I feel the guilt and it often takes everything in me to ignore it because I don't know what to do. A pretty card that lies? Or the pain of the truth? That although I love my mom and feel honestly lucky to have the family that I do, it wasn't all peachy keen and perfect? That we were all flawed and human? That on my internal scales all the things she's done and sacrificed for me somehow doesn't quite balance out to absolute gratitude and unblemished love when weighed against everything I have to hide because she doesn't want to hear it? It's selfish I know. Mother's Day is about making her feel good. Like she's appreciated. And it's not even that I don't think she deserves it, because I really honestly do. It's just that I'm not sure I'm capable of feeling what I'm supposed to be expressing. And why the hell would I ever want to tell her that? So let's bury the truth and find something pretty to get her off my back while I suffer through the shame of my own ingratitude.
I should make this private. It's too personal. And it's not meant to sound as whiny, accusatory, or callous as it seems. But I won't. I promised myself no secrets on this journal. That I wouldn't hide. That hiding was weakness. I like who I am, and having decided that, I'm automatically brought to terms with everything that's happened to me in the past because they all shaped me into the person I became. It's not blame when you're pleased with the result. There are some statements that seem contradictory to this but those are the parts of myself that still lack definition, that are still malleable. And are, at the moment, the parts of myself I most want to change. So I rip up the scars and examine old wounds and map the path that brought me to now. Not that they'll be the first changes, but hopefully when the next catalyst shows up, I'll be further along than the last time. So I suppose I leave you with this:
I'll not make any more apologies for being me.
This is therapy. Don't take it personal.
But I hate Mother's Day. I hate all those simpering cards that say "oh you're such a good friend" and "thanks for always being there for me". I hate them, because all they do is dredge up bad fucking memories. My mom was not always there for me. Sure if it was huge, like a cold and broken bones and bleeding, yeah, she was there. But anything else, it was a toss up.
My mom and I are not friends, never were. We live our own lives and we don't share anything that really matters very often. We never have and I doubt we ever will. It's all just small talk. There are just some things we don't want to know about each other. And this is something both of my parents have said to me, word for word. "There are just some things we don't need to know." This is usually in reference to anything related to sex, including, to some extent relationships.
I used the phrase "abandonment issues" once and got laughed at for it. Regardless of how flippant I am about the subject (as I am aware of how very self-indulgent it is), I keep running into this wall of hurt and pain that I bury because I'm not supposed to acknowledge it. I know nobody wants to hear it. All they'd hear, were I to talk about it, would be accusations. Not necessarily because I was making any, but because no matter how I worded it, that what they'd sound like...what this whole post sounds like.
I was barely a fucking toddler. How was I supposed to understand complex things like a woman spending the night somewhere else to punish her husband? How was I supposed to see anything other than a packed bag and know anything other than the fact that we'd all been yelled at and now mommy was leaving because she was mad? She'd left me before. It was the way she dealt with my tantrums in stores. Effective. Damn effective. She brags about how effective it was.
How was I supposed to understand putting up a front? I was a very open child. I did know how to manipulate my dad into not spanking me, but that's not quite the same thing as humoring a teacher who had nothing but stupid complaints about me. "She lifts her shirt up in class." I folded my arms at my waist and rolled the hem of my shirt up over them. I was in first grade. I never understood what I was doing wrong or why it was such a big deal. To this day, I still have no idea. I only remember being bribed with stuff to be good for that teacher. It was a "I know she's wrong about you but go do whatever she says anyway" message.
I understood both my parents worked. I understood that they were tired. But I wanted to learn things and learning things was good, right? Why didn't they have time to teach me? Why didn't they want to teach me? I was expected to know things and never ask stupid questions. It's the perfectionist in me that asks questions I sort of know the answer to, just to double-check myself. To see if I know what I think I know. And during cooking lessons especially. My mom would watch me and say in an exasperated tone "you don't have to measure exactly, it's not science"; or in eye-rolling sarcasm "oh it's so hard". How does that help anyone learn anything?
I was left alone. It was easier and harder all at the same time. All the tears I've cried in sorrow my entire life have been because I was alone. Left behind. Friends left all the time; it was an army town. My dad left and stayed out nearly all night - which my brother and I would often bear at least a scorching of my mother's anger over, if we came to her attention. And my mom...she stayed. But I don't remember ever being truly close to her again after that. I think I was always preparing myself for the day she'd leave again. I'd known long before then that I couldn't really rely on my dad. He was the chaos that mixed up the routine. Chaos is fun but it does not equal reliable.
So what do you do? You've been taught, through both words and actions: That grownups lie when it suits them and it can sound absolutely sincere. That you can't count on anyone but yourself if you want something done (especially if you want it done a certain way). You've seen firsthand that friends leave you and, even when they say they'll write, are never heard from again. Add a year or two with a babysitter who hated you because you didn't absolutely adore your little brother (and later realize how that was bullshit because she didn't treat her little brother any different) - the consequences of which were to spend a lot of hours alone in your room, with nothing but your own thoughts and imagination to keep you from being bored to tears. Get used to life like that because even if you told your mom you didn't like spending all day in your room, she'd only take the babysitter's side - whether it was right or not. What walls would you build?
Imagine: How enthusiastic would Mother's Day cards make you?
I remember a few good things. And likely there were lots of things that happened that could've been good memories if either of us had been different people. The simple fact is that my mom and I had completely different viewpoints when I was little. The ways we approached the world and each other were...well, looking back, it was sort of like a missed high-five. That moment of confusion you have after your hands breeze past each other and you wonder how in the world you or the other person missed that, leaving you both unbalanced and, heh, "hanging". Not that we've suddenly synced up now. No, it's just a little easier these days to be open to other people's realities. There is a bitter wound in me because nobody has ever tried to see the world through my eyes, and it's with a bitter laugh I say "who could blame them?".
I know I'm not perfect. That I was a horrible child and a pain in the ass. I know. The conundrum of the fiercely independent child (my first phrase was literally: "I do myself.") who needs help and support in her attempts to learn and discover and explore and find herself. When do you help and when do you back off? And what of the perfectionist? It was hard for me to be grateful when someone helped me and the result fell so far from what I'd wanted. I'd complain that nobody likes me and my parents would make fun of me for it. But it was never very hard for me to believe. I was bossy, stubborn, and selfish. A tiny dictator who thought she knew or could figure out what was best for everyone. I've always liked wielding power but I know what it does to me. I know nobody likes me when I have it. And I know when I have ambition my only goal is to have it. So. Generally like-able slacker with no life goals or determined, uptight, power-hungry bitch? Which could you love? And why is it that wanting someone who knows me, all of me, to love me and only me, is the only thing I've wanted for the past 15 years? Blah.
So no. I don't like Mother's Day. I know I should do something. I feel the guilt and it often takes everything in me to ignore it because I don't know what to do. A pretty card that lies? Or the pain of the truth? That although I love my mom and feel honestly lucky to have the family that I do, it wasn't all peachy keen and perfect? That we were all flawed and human? That on my internal scales all the things she's done and sacrificed for me somehow doesn't quite balance out to absolute gratitude and unblemished love when weighed against everything I have to hide because she doesn't want to hear it? It's selfish I know. Mother's Day is about making her feel good. Like she's appreciated. And it's not even that I don't think she deserves it, because I really honestly do. It's just that I'm not sure I'm capable of feeling what I'm supposed to be expressing. And why the hell would I ever want to tell her that? So let's bury the truth and find something pretty to get her off my back while I suffer through the shame of my own ingratitude.
I should make this private. It's too personal. And it's not meant to sound as whiny, accusatory, or callous as it seems. But I won't. I promised myself no secrets on this journal. That I wouldn't hide. That hiding was weakness. I like who I am, and having decided that, I'm automatically brought to terms with everything that's happened to me in the past because they all shaped me into the person I became. It's not blame when you're pleased with the result. There are some statements that seem contradictory to this but those are the parts of myself that still lack definition, that are still malleable. And are, at the moment, the parts of myself I most want to change. So I rip up the scars and examine old wounds and map the path that brought me to now. Not that they'll be the first changes, but hopefully when the next catalyst shows up, I'll be further along than the last time. So I suppose I leave you with this:
I'll not make any more apologies for being me.
This is therapy. Don't take it personal.