Sunday, May 09, 2004

Mother’s Day Moments

Well, as long as I’m writing and in a foul mood I figured I’d share a few moments I’ll frame on the walls of my mind as “Mother’s Day Moments.” They didn’t occur on Mother’s Day, but pretty much sum up why I’m so disappointed in my relationship with my mother and with my mother in general.

The first, which stands out quite boldly in my mind, happened when I was about seven or eight.  Mom always complained quite long and loud about how we never helped around the house.  Looking back, I realize this was quite true, but I also must point out that she never gave us any direction or told us _how_ we could help.  Any household chores and tasks that I know how to do I learned through guesswork, not through the instruction of my mother.  She never taught me to do laundry or wash dishes or anything. 

I’ve always wanted to please my mother and at the tender age of roughly 8, I was especially eager to please her.  I thought I’d help by washing all the dishes that were in the sink.  I meticulously scrubbed each dish after filling the sink with cold soapy water.  After scrubbing them with the cold (and slightly grimy) soap water, I placed them in the drainer.  Rather than showing her pleasure at me trying to take the initiative to do the dishes, rather than explaining that I should have used at least warm water and probably should have _rinsed_ the dishes first, she threw a fit because she had to wash them all over again.  My little spirit was crushed.  I don’t remember another time when I tried taking the initiative to do anything around the house for her.

Another moment that stands out was when I was about 18.  I drove my mom’s car almost exclusively.  I maintained it and paid for insurance and did what I could to repay her for the privilege of using it.  However, at one point the car had mechanical issues and needed to be fixed.  It was my mother’s car, so I assumed it should be her responsibility to fix it.  She came to me and said that she needed to borrow some money to fix it because she didn’t have any cash.  I fronted her the money (plus some.) Looking back, I realize that because I was the sole driver, it should have been my responsibility to pay for ALL upkeep, even that which was due to normal wear and tear and not due to any fault of my own.  Still, she claimed that it was merely a loan.  She told my dad that _she_ was paying for the repairs and she never repaid me.  To this day, my father thinks me an irresponsible lout because my _mother_ had to pay for repairs even though I was driving her car.

Other than the “fuck” chiding I received in fourth grade, my mother never really had any sex ed talk with me ever.  When I got pregnant with Devon, however, she threw in my face, “We’ve talked to you about this over and over, you should have known better!” Yeah, I should have known better, but you know what?  Not due to anything she ever had done.

When I was about seventeen I called my mother a bitch in a heated argument.  I was completely out of line and I don’t blame my mother for slapping me across the face.  However, I didn’t learn not to call her a bitch.  I didn’t learn not to think of her as a bitch.  I just learned to do it behind her back.

Since I’ve been married, she has shown more affection toward TDO than toward me during my whole life.  Granted, at this point I’ve been with TDO for 1/3 of my life (read: a long time) but it still hurts that she’s more likely to hug him or tell him she loves him than me.  Considering my in-laws are so spiteful and my own family so detached it’s hard to feel loved or lovable.  Sometimes I realize it’s just that stupid little voice in my head.  Other times, I really do feel like I am unlovable.

My mom has lied to me.  Bold faced lied to me.  A lot.  More times than I can count.  This bothers me not only because I feel honesty is very important but because she was SO hardcore about honesty.  I remember times when my parents blatantly set me up to lie just so they could catch me in the lie and punish me.  I was forced to take naps long past when I needed them.  I would sit and read or quietly play with my toys and my dad would catch me (I’d see him out of the corner of my eye or whatever) up and out of bed.  Later my mom would say, “If you took a nap we’ll go to the park.  Did you take a nap?” I’d answer yes.  I wanted to go to the park, it was a big deal to me.  I’d promptly get my mouth washed out with soap.  It was OK for them to lie to me, or at least be deceitful, but it wasn’t OK for me to lie.

I learned not to take anything anyone says at face value and to always assume you’re being set up.  I learned to lie and say I did something when I didn’t because in admitting the little things that I didn’t actually do when I actually did do something big I could lie and get away with it.

When my mom got together with my dad (step-dad who adopted me) she asked me what I thought of him and whether or not I wanted him to be my father.  I told her I _absolutely did not_ want him to be part of our lives.  She ignored me.  I learned that she doesn’t really care what I think.  She merely asks as a pretense to ease her own conscience.

When my grandmother died, rather than being respectful of *my* memories of her, my mother trampled all over my grandmother about what a horrible mother my grandmother had been and how she (grandma) had never really loved her (mom.) What a crock of shit. 

Mom likes playing victim.  Mom likes drinking.  Mom likes living in oblivion.  Mom likes to be the martyr.  Mom wants to be taken advantage of so she can bitch about it later.  Mom wants to have you think that her life is a living hell.  Mom will never openly accept help and if she accepts it privately you can guarantee she will never acknowledge your assistance to you or anyone else ever again.  In fact, ten minutes after the fact she’ll be bitching to someone that _no one_ ever does anything to help her out.

Every holiday, every event, every big moment was always trama and drama.  Either Mom was pissed because she never was invited or asked to join in or help out or else she’s totally put out because she feels she’s had to grace us with her presence or else she had to do everything all by herself.  I learned not to include her in anything because it only hurt to be rejected and _wrong_ no matter what I did.

Yeah, I love my mom.  I’m not sure if it’s out of obligation or for the good things I’ve started to overlook.  All I know is that I do not want to be like her.  When she dies, I refuse to tell my children what a horrid person she was and how selfish and unkind.  Even if I feel it’s true.

Instead I guess I’ll just vent it all here, eh?

In Other Years:

Transcendentalism - a guest entry (2002)

I wondered when my prying, pressing meddling would wind up among the annals of this journal, and here I am…[Read More]

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