A Mother and Daughter

Reflection can come from within or without. My mirror has been this blog; my internal struggles and grapplings with my past, and actually seeing my thoughts and feelings on screen. It's like I've worked out a math equation on a chalk board, and although I may be graded, just knowing that I was able to work out the problem for myself - whether the answer be wrong or right - makes me feel good inside. I have been apprehensive about writing about certain topics; and truly the real bombshells will not come until the end of this blog, which will likely occur in 10 days. This particular entry, dealing with my relationship with my mother is troubling. I know, it's normal for mothers and daughters to have complicated relationships, but how do I talk about all of the anger and joy and love and hate in a couple of pages? How do I sum up a relationship I've had my whole life? How can I be truthful with myself and honest about my feelings when I want to filter the view all of you have of her? How do I talk about my mother?

Early in life, my mother was my world. She loved me; I knew it because she danced with me, she laughed with me, and she cried with me. I knew how she felt, I was in tune with her heart. I knew when she needed a kiss or a hug. I knew when she needed a laugh. But, my mother was always busy; busy with my younger brothers, busy with work, busy with school, busy with friends. So, our time was precious, and sometimes our time was short, but the bond was never weaker for it. It was only stronger and better appreciated.

When I was five, there was an incident that changed something in me regarding the opinion I had of my mother, and although the love was there - floating on the surface - there was planted a small seed. One of hate and anger and disgust (details on this will be my last blog entry). After this incident, nothing was the same, and as I got older, that small seed grew. An undercurrent of distrust and hurt washed over me like waves crashing against a rocky beach, every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Waves, pounding the shoreline of my soul.

In my teen years, there was a particularly sharp downturn in our relationship, this time on her part. She trusted me less; I found myself being punished for writing "crush" letters, and hanging out with friends. Verbal abuse was piled on me; the words "slut", "stupid", and "jackass" were used frequently. I didn't understand why; unlike my friends, I wasn't having sex and had no desire to do so at the time. I would stand there, quivering, as she lectured me in front of my brothers. Tears blurring my vision, my hands sweating, and my mind questioning. I was constantly told, that although I thought I was better than everyone, I was not. I felt so misunderstood; I never felt like I was better than everyone - in fact I felt like I was lower than dirt - this led me to withdrawing from people. My self-esteem was almost non-existent.

When I moved out, I was happy not to speak to my mother for 4 months. I couldn't take any more berating. My contact with her during this period in my life was minimal, and I was grateful for it. We began speaking regularly and unguarded again when I left my boyfriend and moved into an apartment on my own. She even explained to me that her relationship with her own mother had been strained and she was learning how to raise her only daughter when I was younger. It was history repeating itself, I thought.

During this move, I discovered that she had used my name and social security number to rack up debts blemishing my credit and preventing me from getting a phone and making it impossible to get an apartment in my name. Once again, I stopped speaking to her. Who was this woman that could do these things to me? Where was the mother I danced with to Heatwave's Always and Forever?

For years we struggled through; I learned to deal with her as an adult, and not entirely on her terms. I was no longer a cowering child waiting to be chastised, I was a woman who wanted to be respected.

The worst though, was when I reconnected with my husband. She never liked him. She would constantly tell me he didn't love me, that he was not meant for me, that I could do better, that he was not on my level. I could over look that, after all, parents worry about their children and want what's best for them. But once we were married, she constantly disrespected my marriage with her words, and also by "joking" about setting me up with other men who were doctors and lawyers. I explained to my mother that I had dated successful men, millionaires in fact, but my husband was who I wanted. So when I finally got pregnant, I was hesitant about telling my family and my mother about my news. When I told my mother I was pregnant, she did not respond the way I hoped. No joyous shouts, no excitement, just a very plain and dull congratulations.

I guess it should have been no surprise, that as my mother, husband, and I walked out of my OBGYNs office the day I found out my fetus was not viable - as I was bawling in the middle of the street - that she would say, "maybe this is for the best." The last thing I wanted to hear from my own mother were those words at that moment. It was the ultimate betrayal for me. She knew my struggles with infertility, she knew I loved (and love) my husband; I couldn't understand what would possess her to say those things even with the undercurrent of animosity between us.

We haven't spoken since.

Tomorrow, Cheater. . .

A Lost father - The Second Coming

So, I have finally been assured by a reader that I am normal; this is exciting stuff! Why is it that it's so easy to feel as though no one shares what you perceive to be your abnormalities? Do I really want to be unique so bad that I'd rather be perceived as abnormal? Is my striving for normality some false plight, some invented struggle? Perhaps. . . I know, for instance, that there are many women with daddy issues, so that must be normal.

This is not a story of death, despite what the title sounds like, it may as well be, but it isn't. It's about emotional loss. The loss of someone who's inherent duty, from the time you are born, is to protect you - to love you - to guide you. My father left us when I was young, but that's "A Lost Father - The First Leaving", remember, we are working our way backwards in time. After that, we were estranged for many years. I told people that he was dead. He didn’t exist for me. The men I dated, my co-workers, my friends, they all believed he was dead.

My brother decided he would reach out to my father via an aunt we still kept in touch with; my father's sister never made excuses for him. It often felt as though she loved us twice as much to make up for my father’s absence. Upon contacting my father, my brother reported back to me. He had re-married and had 2 sons. We had more brothers! I was conflicted, I wanted to know my brothers, but I wanted to keep far away from my father. I decided to wait and see what my brother's reunion was like before I attempted one.

My brother went to visit him, it seemed as though the reunion was luke-warm at best. My father blamed the situation on my mother. He said she was crazy, but my question was, why would you leave your babies with a crazy woman? Why would you not come to see about your children in 20 years? Why would you just leave? My brother spoke to me about his experience, and then ended our discussion with some advice, advice I had heard from the few people who knew that my father was alive. He said that I needed to try and repair the relationship with my father, that I had to be the one to reach out, otherwise I would likely not have a successful relationship with any man. My brother knew my history, I would get into relationships, and when things were at their best, I would run like a scared rabbit. I wouldn't accept gifts, phone calls, or visits - I would cut the unsuspecting victims off entirely. So, maybe my brother was right, maybe I should reach out to the man who changed my life in ways I was still discovering.

I made a phone call. He wasn't home, so I left a message. The sense of anticipation in my heart was overwhelming. I felt shaky and nauseous. When he finally called me back, the conversation was short. He said he would be in town visiting my aunt. I invited him to have lunch with me, just he and I, trying to hash out our difference in this intimate restaurant meant for happier occasions. I had a few weeks to prepare for the visit. It almost felt like I were about to go on a big day; spa treatments, hair appointments, manicures, extra work-outs, teeth whitening. I wanted to show him what he missed out on, what a great woman I had become, how successful I was.

When we met at the tiny stone restaurant in the park I recognized him immediately; he was a little grayer, but he looked like the same man who walked out the door and down that very long hallway - the man who never came back. We sat down and ordered a cheese and fruit platter along with coffee. He asked me what I did for a living, I told him that I was in the financial industry and preparing for another job. He told me that I should settle down and find a career, that I wasn't getting any younger. Right away, I felt insulted, I was making lots of money, not having a hard time finding jobs, and was living on my own without anyone's help, and immediately he begins critiquing me. I told him that he had no right to criticize anything I do because he wasn't there to help raise me, and that I had worked hard to get to where I was. I wasn't on food stamps, I didn't have any children, and I was living life and traveling around the world on my own dime.

It was downhill from there, but he asked for another meeting the next day; he'd bring my new-found brothers along. I invited them to dinner at my house. When they came, I was happy to see my brothers. They were tall and handsome and well-mannered. I made steaks and vegetables and rice. My father said they weren't allowed to have sugar, or second helpings of food. It was so hurtful to see the way he protected them, so hurtful to see his concern for them - even in that miniscule way, knowing how he'd abandoned my brother and I. My pain was so deep. It was like a black rotting seed veining through my body with darkness surrounding. Inducing thoughts of bleak self-hatred.

When they left, I knew I couldn't speak to my father again, I knew I couldn't experience that level of self-loathing again - it would destroy me. I had to look inside, and find something that made me worthy, something that would kill that spark of emotion slowly destroying me like ivy climbing and expanding in brick walls eventually turning them to rubble. And that something wouldn't come from my father, it couldn't come from him. It had to come from me. I knew, I had lost my father again, in my mind he would go back into the murky waters of death, and there would be no return or resurrection. He was gone.

Tomorrow, The Big Bad Wolf