I posted an episode over the weekend, then I deleted it. A part of me wants to delete what I wrote today. Because I’m so afraid someone will stand up and say, you spoiled brat! You had it so easy, and all you do is complain. You have no idea how many good things were given to you, and yet all you do is see the negative. Feel sorry for yourself. Apparently, I don’t need anyone else to say that. It’s all in me.
And what brought this on? I was thinking about how scrunched up my writing and thinking is when it’s about Mom. It’s not how I feel about other things. I’m reaching out everywhere else. Happily oozing out. Peering out with new eyes wondering, who’s that person? I wonder if I like that? This subject? No. I’ve got it strapped down. Like R’s analogy of a bunch of belts keeping everything in place. I don’t want to be scrunched up anymore.
And then there’s the fear of poisoning myself. These memories are resting and I’m functioning in society. Better and better each day, in fact. Why disturb them? Am I some masochist? Do I need to be suffering?
No. As I made my way home tonight, and as I prepared to go back out the door to meet friends (trying to collect myself), I thought no. Defiantly no. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to be miserable. I want this to end. I want control. She’s not allowed in my head anymore. So I’m going to understand why this, of all the bad memories, came at me today. The two of us are going to have a talk, me and this memory.
It was just a simple misunderstanding, right? My mom was concerned. It just happens that she wasn’t worried about me. No. She was worried about a woman she barely knew. Someone she wanted to be friends with. The message was clear. She had sent this friend out into the world with her demon daughter. It was personal. There was clearly something wrong with ME. I had worked so hard to be a good daughter. It was critical to me. As I said in an earlier post, I believed that if I couldn’t get my mom to love me, I couldn’t expect anyone else to, either. And here, my own mother was so afraid of how I might hurt people she hardly knew, she was consoling them on the phone. In front of me. I was obviously a complete failure who had no place in the world. I was obviously someone to fear. I was a monster.
A monster she bragged about to her friends. I so don’t get this. She would tell me how her friends said such great things about me, and then point out things I’d done to embarrass her. Like asking what kind of milk her friend had when she offered, and when her friend said whole, I declined. Mom was horrified. I got a long lecture about it on the way home.
At home, it was me sitting anxiously on the couch watching TV with her. When I wasn’t hiding in my room, that is. And I wasn’t allowed to hide in my room when boyfriends were over. “Come out and see X. Don’t be so rude. Come see him. He wants to see you.” I’d come out, and then she’d flirt with him in front of me, often making me the butt of her jokes. Every now and then, her boyfriend would take pity on me and turn the tough jokes on her, and then the spotlight would fall on him.
But back to the couch. I remember being there quite a bit. I was eating to bury my pain. I have stretch marks but no children. My battle scars. There was nothing but junk food in the house. Mom could eat anything and not gain weight. Burgers at fast food places. Mashed potatoes. Fritos. Scrambled eggs. Cereal. Cheese Nips. Whatever soft drink she was currently craving. We didn’t have meals. We ate in front of the TV. Every now and then she would say, “stop eating,” in an irritated voice. My grandmother put me into various programs during the summers, and she would sneak up on me and poke my shoulder blades to see how much fat was there. Just checking my progress.
[About my grandmother. If she was so terrible, why did my mom send me there every time she went out on a date? I’m just curious. And if my dad was so abusive that my mom left him to take care of me, why did she send me to visit him even after I begged her not to make me go because he was drinking too much? Wondering.]
But the couch (I can’t stay here). This is where I got most of the criticism. “Don’t be ugly.” That was her favorite. “You don’t like anyone, do you?” “Why can’t you be nice?” “Don’t be rude.” “Don’t breathe like that.” “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”
So I hid in my room and cried a lot. She hated that. Frustrated her no end. I was so sensitive. Overreacting. Getting bent out of shape about nothing. She ignored me mostly, but every now and then she would come in and … well… I knew she just wanted me to stop crying.
In one of the journal entries I uncovered while trying to understand why I couldn’t be angry with her, I read a note to self: I pursue relationships with men even when it’s obvious they’re not interested. Just like I used to eagerly jump on Mom’s bed knowing that she would tell me to go away, but every now and then, she wanted me to be there. Every now and then, she would read to me.
So she didn’t torture me or beat me. She was irresponsible, but it wasn't just that. My mother rejected me over and over and over again. No matter what I did. Starting when I was 8, when I was being ‘like your father’. When I was ‘powerful’ like my grandmother. I oppressed her. But I kept on trying to be the right daughter for her.
And that’s what I’m still trying to do now, isn’t it? In spite of everything? If I take care of her, she'll get well, and maybe finally love me? If I take care of her, maybe she'll finally see that I'm not a bad person?
I know this is a lot, and I’m sorry this is so personal. I just had to say these things. Make them real, I guess.
Wildflower
