A week ago. Mother's Day. A day filled with emotion, expectations, expressions of love and devotion...and for some, a painful reminder of what isn't.
I thank God for my three beautiful children who are so generous with their affection and so giving of their love. I try very hard to be the Mama they deserve, to make sure they know of my love and passion for them. That I accept and really like them for the unique people they are and celebrate the gifts that they are to me.
A year ago. I spoke with my Mom for the last time. A year ago. I flew home the same day she was released from the hospital. I bathed her, dressed her and sat with her. On Mother's Day, she had a list of errands she demanded I complete (a task I would have gladly done had she just asked rather than flinging a piece of paper at me in dismissal). With my own children 2000 miles away, I endured yet another suffocating and silent holiday dinner. Her bitterness filled the room like a dense fog, making everyone else invisible. Her disappointments, unmet needs, frustrations, etc., only could have center stage.
The following morning, I stepped out of the shower to the sound of her voice yelling for me. She pointed to a chair in her room and commanded me to sit. Then the berating began as she listed the history of my sins against her, starting with the most recent one: I had not woken up early enough to make her breakfast. She was starving. I should have known that (after nearly 40 years, my mind-reading skills were not up to par). How dare I selfishly linger and not take care of her? An explanation that I had been up all night sick with stomach pains (a condition that she was aware of and seemed to occur with frequency when I was around her) was inexcusable. I had committed yet another unpardonable sin. Then the list continued of everything I had done to hurt her. I had been clean moments before, but the crap was now being flung in every direction. This could take hours. And there never was any absolution.
So I stood up and walked away. Stepped into my bedroom, closed the door and shook.
"What do I do, God?"
A major way that I survived my childhood was by reminding myself that one day I would be an adult and would not be forced to endure this any longer. With a peace in my heart that God was with me and leading me, I packed my bags. In the meantime, my mother summoned my father to her room and began playing the victim. Had I come to visit just to attack her? What had she done to deserve being treated this way? He listened for a few moments and left for work. She got up, banged around in the kitchen and made herself some food.
I quietly gathered my bags, went out the front door, and waited for a friend to pick me up. I kept my promise to the childhood me to protect myself and not be forced to tolerate the unending deluge of condemnation. It'd continue whether or not I was present; there was no reason for me to cooperate or act as a willing participant. Removing myself was the best response.
A month later she was in a coma. I flew back out to visit with her in the hospital, hoping for a miracle and an opportunity to make peace. She was responsive only one time, struggling to come to consciousness, squeezing my hand, tears running down her face, a sense of urgency as she tried to communicate to me. I understood. I forgive you, Mom. Forgive me, Mom.
She is finally at peace, enjoying the presence of God.
I miss my Mom and the sweet moments that we shared when we could enjoy our relationship. I've always loved her but also knew that the things she did and said were very wrong. She was an amazing, gifted and beautiful woman who also tormented and hurt me in many unfathomable ways. My life is not defined by her behavior, though it has had a huge effect on it, from which I am healing. And I will not minimize or dismiss the gravity of what she did either. My family, experts at the art of denial, may choose to canonize her. I will honor her as my Mom. With the understanding that she was a broken person who struggled a lot in her life. I will continue to address the pain and damage inflicted by her and heal. Because my children deserve a whole, healthy Mama who loves them unconditionally. And I will choose to live free of condemnation.
The following morning, I stepped out of the shower to the sound of her voice yelling for me. She pointed to a chair in her room and commanded me to sit. Then the berating began as she listed the history of my sins against her, starting with the most recent one: I had not woken up early enough to make her breakfast. She was starving. I should have known that (after nearly 40 years, my mind-reading skills were not up to par). How dare I selfishly linger and not take care of her? An explanation that I had been up all night sick with stomach pains (a condition that she was aware of and seemed to occur with frequency when I was around her) was inexcusable. I had committed yet another unpardonable sin. Then the list continued of everything I had done to hurt her. I had been clean moments before, but the crap was now being flung in every direction. This could take hours. And there never was any absolution.
So I stood up and walked away. Stepped into my bedroom, closed the door and shook.
"What do I do, God?"
A major way that I survived my childhood was by reminding myself that one day I would be an adult and would not be forced to endure this any longer. With a peace in my heart that God was with me and leading me, I packed my bags. In the meantime, my mother summoned my father to her room and began playing the victim. Had I come to visit just to attack her? What had she done to deserve being treated this way? He listened for a few moments and left for work. She got up, banged around in the kitchen and made herself some food.
I quietly gathered my bags, went out the front door, and waited for a friend to pick me up. I kept my promise to the childhood me to protect myself and not be forced to tolerate the unending deluge of condemnation. It'd continue whether or not I was present; there was no reason for me to cooperate or act as a willing participant. Removing myself was the best response.
A month later she was in a coma. I flew back out to visit with her in the hospital, hoping for a miracle and an opportunity to make peace. She was responsive only one time, struggling to come to consciousness, squeezing my hand, tears running down her face, a sense of urgency as she tried to communicate to me. I understood. I forgive you, Mom. Forgive me, Mom.
She is finally at peace, enjoying the presence of God.
I miss my Mom and the sweet moments that we shared when we could enjoy our relationship. I've always loved her but also knew that the things she did and said were very wrong. She was an amazing, gifted and beautiful woman who also tormented and hurt me in many unfathomable ways. My life is not defined by her behavior, though it has had a huge effect on it, from which I am healing. And I will not minimize or dismiss the gravity of what she did either. My family, experts at the art of denial, may choose to canonize her. I will honor her as my Mom. With the understanding that she was a broken person who struggled a lot in her life. I will continue to address the pain and damage inflicted by her and heal. Because my children deserve a whole, healthy Mama who loves them unconditionally. And I will choose to live free of condemnation.
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