I have always been equally adoring of and appalled by my mother. Growing up, there were little snippets of stories about those she knew, met, slept with, laughed with and told off. Her constant commentary on my achievements, my funny sayings, my challenges and my successes – all of which made me uncomfortable in a way I could not explain. I remember very little about growing up. I have maintained a tiny internal hard drive of snapshots and blurred images of my childhood – and not much more than that from my adulthood.
Looking back, and still today, there are things that never added up. The emotions/feelings never matched the language. I often felt my experience usurped – and supplanted with her version of the story (including stories of my stories and experiences). Telling everyone how wonderful her daughter was, then praising both of her children. But I was the first, the daughter- the replica. Telling me I was brilliant and talented (while living life as if being alone, without a man, or two was a fate worse than death) until…I don’t fucking know what happened.
I know that there was a time when she saw my life taking on a trajectory that she might have dreamed of, but did not venture toward – and she was jealous. THEN it changed everything forever or maybe this was always her. But a sweet, adoring girl who loved her mother more than anything in the world began to pay the personal price for her mother’s insecurities, emotional immaturity, lack of curiosity and fear of accountability.
There isn’t any story she can’t make herself the star of – whether she has actual experience or not. There isn’t any celebration that she can’t steal, any loss she can’t usurp or any pain she can’t outmatch. I used to think I was over-sensitive, until they saw it, too. Every significant friend in my life, from the age of 14 on, could see what was happening in our relationship, but I could not.
Her conditioning was complete and continues to haunt me even now, at the end of my 6th decade on the earth. The most significant singular discomfort that I felt all of my life, not being enough, was the only certainty my mother could bequeath to me. It colored every moment of every day – certainly until I got sober…and then off and on and off and on since that day in 1987, when my work began in earnest. I have buttoned up many of the holes, patched most of the leaks and cleansed the darkness to a great degree.
I’ve done a buttload of personal work in therapy, 12-step programs, re-birthing exercises, etc. Through that work I’ve made great strides in learning to live in the world as it is, not as I would have it. Unfortunately, my past work has not insulated me from the woman my mother is still and for all intents and purposes, will be until she shuffles off her mortal coil.
To her credit she chose to get some help through another 12-step program and it is helping her to see herself in a new light. I am genuinely happy for her – and I do not know if it will help her heal the deepest cuts, still weeping.
I’ve learned a lot about how people work and why they behave the way they do. I’ve also learned that no matter what happens, at a certain point, people make choices, decisions about how they will show up in the world.
AND I have to accept people as they are.
AND they are not required to change.
All that’s left to do is decide how to interact with those people and whether or not OR how to protect myself from continued hurt.
Recently, I started doing some bodywork with a friend and teacher. It’s called Gyrokinesis. It was just another movement class to me until it wasn’t. I think it’s unlocking feelings and an emotional authenticity that I was not available to before now.
Growing up, I was told I was too sensitive, take things too personally. (I think that is how bullies who “love” you make it ok to behave any way they want to.) I didn’t have the language or self-confidence to express my feelings, so I buried them, re-channeled them, ate them – the one thing I rarely did was feel them. There was only one place to put them…deep inside. Gyrokinesis is unlocking the vaults where I stored the truths I did not want to see and shining the Light on so many dark crannies where my true feelings went to hide when the young woman I was refused to acknowledge them.
My greatest challenge in this never-ending healing process is to allow the dreams and disappointments of that little girl to be processed and released by the grown ass woman I’ve become.
Anyway…Stuff. Is. Coming. Up. I am equally grateful and nauseous. Stay tuned…
