Growing up my Mom was my best friend. Like really and truly she was my best friend. I struggled to belong in elementary and middle school. Either the target of bullying or one of the nameless faces blindly following the leaders. It was my mom who helped me to discover who I was by introducing me to the things that became my life long passions. And by giving me the ability to be myself. For all our differences, my mom has always allowed me to be myself.
When it was good with my mom, it was goooooood. We used to have Sunday’s for ourselves. Wether that was the movies, and brunch, or checking out a book fair. Sundays were the chance for my mom and I to just enjoy each others company. I really did treasure those days. I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. They’re one of the few fond memories I have with family at a young age. I don’t really remember when but one day, those Sundays just stopped. I think there were several times she cancelled. And I know at a certain point I just stopped wanting to go. I felt like if I did go, we would just argue. Something would happen to spoil the outing. For me, all it takes is one thing to make the day bad. Or at least that’s how I used to think. And eventually we just stopped planning those Sundays. When those Sunday’s stopped, my mom stopped being my best friend.
It may have been sometime towards the end of middle school. That’s when the bullying reached its peak for me. And my mom also found a new lover in life. A woman that was soon to be her wife. And then her ex wife. I think that’s when the resentment I felt towards her begin to grow. Why are you marrying this woman? So quickly? This woman whom I wasn’t exactly that fond of. And later found out, none of her friends were that fond of her either. That relationship blew through our lives. Quite brutally. It left my mom with more emotional damage than she knew how to deal with. And more resentment than I knew what to do with. My mom went to therapy after that. It helped her a lot. She even changed the way she spoke to me. Although not that much.
Later she apologized to me for putting me through the domestically violent relationships of both that woman and a previous one from my childhood that had been much more physical and mentally traumatic for me. I said I forgive you. But I didn’t really. How was I supposed to? My whole life it had felt like everything was on my moms terms. When I was younger she had to travel a lot for work. I got used to waking up and going to sleep in an empty house. Even when she was home she would go out at night with her friends a lot. She was an event hostess, something she really enjoyed. Something I felt I had no right to tell her to stop.
At the end of the day it was to provide for us right? Or was it? Was it just something else she did because she wanted to? Not to say that having a child means you should give up all fun and joy in your life. That you must sacrifice everything. And I know my mom sacrificed a lot or me. But I couldn’t help feeling like when I was old enough to not die if I was left alone, the first thing she did was leave me alone. Am I truly independent and good by myself? Or was I made to be that way? And now, just because she apologized I’m supposed to forgive and forget? But the amount of times I’ve messed up and saying sorry just wasn’t enough? Once again, it’s all on her terms.
With my family I’ve always felt like your past follows you wherever. You have a record sheet that lists all the bad you’ve done in life permanently stapled to your back. And each family member takes joy in reading it any chance they get. Fights with my mom would start from one small thing and then just spiral and spiral and spiral until it felt like my whole being was being attacked. I’d rant to her about my day and then somehow end up being the one yelled at. I know she didn’t mean to. And I know she loved and loves me very much. But I grew up feeling utterly alone.
High school came and I tried everything to make my mom proud. I never wanted to disappoint her or give her a reason to yell at me. That feeling, still hasn’t gone away. She didn’t ask me to. I’d always been that kid that didn’t need much discipline. I grew up with my mom feeling more like a friend than a mother but she would most certainly lay down the law when she felt she needed to. Maybe that’s how our relationship got so skewed.
Everything is so complicated. So jumbled and confusing I don’t know what to make of it. I love my mom to death and always will, but there’s also things she’s said in passing that hurt me and have stayed with me to this day that I know I won’t ever forget. My grandma once told me you don’t have to like someone to love them and for awhile, that’s how I felt about my mom. I loved her. Craved her. Desired her attention and approval for every decision of my life. Lived for the moments she’d brag about me to friends and tell me how proud she was of me. Every mistake I made felt like I was slipping farther and farther out of her grace. Like she was some God I couldn’t bear to fail. That’s obviously not healthy.
It didn’t help I had other family members on all sides talking shit about her just as easily as they’d compliment her. Confusing much?
I’m not putting all the blame on my mother. Not at all. It’s not like I was some perfect child and I always communicated how I felt perfectly and maturely. I screamed and raged back. I’d withdraw to my room before she could go to hers. I’d avoid and put her on the fringe. There were days I’d come home and the mere sight of her on the couch would fill me with rage because I just wanted to be alone. And I was so scared I’d say the wrong thing and start a fight. I’d just get angry and create one.
Of course there were a few mental illnesses I had that neither of us knew about at the time. Anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder. My emotions were a wreck. And I kept them packaged up nice and neat inside me just boiling away. It wasn’t until college, not until my mom was in a whole other continent that everything finally unraveled and fell apart. We talk better now. I hit my lowest point and she was there. Even in a whole other continent, she still tried to be there for me. That’s probably my favorite thing about my mom. She doesn’t give up, and she stands by the people she loves. Forever. Or at least until they give her a damn good reason not to.
My mom and I’s relationship is not simple. It’s not easy. It’s not ugly. It’s not beautiful. It’s a work in progress. I pride myself on knowing that we’ve both taken strides to being better people and having better communication. At the end of the day, all relationships just need a little talking. How could she fix something she didn’t know was broken? How could she stop hurting me if she didn’t know she was hurting me, and vice versa? How can we get closer, if I don’t reach out my hand to pull her close?
My mom is still my biggest fan, and I hers. Right now, we’re good. But I want to be better. I want to get back to that warm closeness I felt on the Sunday’s of my childhood. And one day I will. And I’ll go beyond that. With everything we’ve both endured, it makes sense we make mistakes. And yes we will fight. But I’m an adult now. I’m mature enough to pick and choose my battles. Respectfully stand my ground. And actively listen to what she has to say. No more hiding behind unspoken words. I love my mom and she loves me. That’s more than enough of a reason to try.