Mother's Day...

I find myself not doing a very good job or sorting through all these feelings today. We celebrate Mother’s day on May 10^th, so today is not as emotionally poignant as last Wednesday. Luckily, I was scheduled to do an intake up in St. Peter’s Regional Treatment Center and I welcomed the two-hour drive. It gave me an opportunity to be present with my feelings while not having to interact much with the world around me, with the exception of fellow travelers, of course.  

            I’ve indicated before that Mother was not a particularly good mother as I was growing up. As a matter of fact, she finally acknowledged a few months before her death that she didn’t like me as a child and that she’d grown to love me as a woman for the integrity, honesty, and force with which I have lived my life. Of all the gifts she gave me during the past few years to help me heal, the latter was the most precious. It’s shocking to hear a parent tell us that we were not liked, yet the reality is that we always know these things. Mother acknowledging it validated what I’d known all along. It alleviated a lot of her guilt for “failing” me as a mother and it allowed me to forgive her humanity; not to mention, that it gave me that “I knew it!” moment we all need at least once with our parents.

             No, Mother was not a very good mother. I haven’t faulted her for this in a very long time. Most of it was due to circumstances beyond her control. She learned she was pregnant with me when she tried to kill herself. She told me once how much she resented me because my coming into being enslaved her with my father for longer than she’d wanted. I also have strong suspicion that she experienced Postpartum Depression with my birth. Father didn’t help once I was born. Most of my early memories are fraught with recollections of him making me his partner in his emotional and psychological abuse towards her. It took me many, many years to come to terms with this. Most of my life, I believed that I deserved Mother’s antipathy because I had been such a horrendously cruel child to her. Maybe I still do. I still feel a pang in my chest when I think of some of the cruel things Father encouraged me to say to her and the countless times she left the room in tears.  I wish she would have accepted my many apologies, but she didn’t feel they were necessary, regardless how much I insisted. I’m sorry, Mother.

            Tete, my oldest brother, is who I always celebrate on Mother’s or Father’s Day. He is the one who nurtured and looked after me. He taught me to read and write, tie my shoes, tell time, and shaped my moral compass. Of course, this year the loss feels a bit heavier on this Mother’s Day. I mourn them both. I mourn the parent who changed my diapers, protected me during thunderstorms and against bullies. Now, I also grieve the Mother who helped me heal all the pain from the traumatic experience that was my childhood. I miss the Mother who encouraged me and believed in me as a woman; the Mother who admired and respected who I am. 

             My two biggest fans are dead. I am luckier than most, I had Tete to fill-in for Mother. Most don’t have the privilege of a stand-in for their parents. Though, I have to admit that it is hard to feel grateful with this heavy pressure on my chest making it hard to breathe.