That's the response that I give when people ask how I'm doing lately.
Today, it dawned on me that I need to be more honest about where I'm at.
The accepted response is usually to reply "
I'm good, thanks or I'm fine and you?", even if you feel like crap a la mode. It's one of those unwritten social
mores that I have decided to break. I'm not going to do it right now, not going to put on the "
I'm great!" disguise and shuffle along.
I've been opening up to my close friends and disclosing more intimate details about my life. I'm starting to accept their invitation for friendship and have retracted my "long arm". The reaction has been positive and eye opening. All of a sudden, more things make sense, it seems, and they seem to be putting pieces of a puzzle together that even I didn't see where they fit or that the puzzle piece even existed for that matter. It's reassuring to hear other people's experiences and input into where I'm at right now.
Where is that?, you might ask.
Well, this brings me to my most recent life altering revelation.
September 11 will forever be my day of reckoning and personal freedom.
Like EVERYONE on the planet, I have my own stories of whoa and dismay about my childhood.
We all do, don't we? I reckon there should be a scale of 1 to 10. 10 being along the lines of a completely
feral child raised by a pack of dogs to 1 being along the lines of some kind of
nirvana perfect childhood with
cherubim and harp music.
edited to remove the original "fairies and pixie dust" analogy because they can be rather "impish".I rate the first half of my life up until Sept. 11 2008 as something around a 5.5...rounded up to a 6 even.
Not quite feral, but not great.
To look at my "mom" one would think she is sweetness and light and all things good, but the reality is much darker and sinister. For most of my life, my mother has been the
bane of my very existence. From outward appearances, my brother and I had the good life. We were well mannered, clean, intelligent, we had it all. We did have the best or near best in everything back then in comparison to those around us. Nicest house, nicest cars, nicest clothes, nicest TV, the latest greatest toys, packed refrigerator of food. What we didn't have was a "mother" or a "father" for that matter. But, let's concentrate on her right now.
My "mother" never treated me like a person. She never showed me any love or caring. NEVER! Quite the opposite, in fact. I put "mother" in quotes because she never fulfilled the actual role of being a mother. She only gave birth to me. The rest, besides the obligatory roof over my head food and clothes and things, was left to me to sort out. I can say I was lucky with regard to the superficial. But, what does all that mean? It's just superficial bullsh!t. That's not LOVE! It's just stuff. I would have gladly traded all the superficial crap for a real mom who baked cookies and kissed my ouchies and hugged me and read bedtimes stories to me and told me I was pretty and special and that she LOVED me.
Instead, I shared a house with this woman, my mother, who smoked, drank, partied, worked when she wanted to and cheated on my dad A LOT. She was/is completely self absorbed. Oblivious to my needs as a person; as her daughter.
My whole life it seemed that I was nothing more than a "pack mule". A tool. A something that does something. Not a daughter. Not someone deserving of love, guidance and care. I was a thing to be used for her personal service, amusement and abuse. My nickname used to be "
Cinderella", but I never got to go to the ball or find Prince Charming. Just clean up the messes and keep quiet.
I was always a daddy's girl. My dad was my hero and my salvation. Well, when he was around he was. My dad was an officer in the military and he was frequently away on assignment and would leave us (my brother and me) with her for months at a time. Those were truly some of the darkest times. Left alone with the woman that I feared and loathed. I hated her for all the secrets I had to keep. All the deceitful, dirty things she did while he was away. He never knew. I never told.
One incident comes to mind. I think I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. It was lunchtime and I was quietly sitting in the cafeteria, ALONE (Yes, I was painfully introverted back then), eating lunch and a school counselor approached me. She could tell that I was depressed and I was. It was clear to anyone who saw me. Later that day, the counselor called my mom (who was a school teacher at another school) and informed her that I needed help. That evening after school, my mom came home absolutely enraged. She was embarrassed. I made her look bad. She insisted that I wasn't depressed and she'd make sure of it by beating it out of me. She pummeled me with her fists and cussed at me for what seemed like an eternity. Afterwards, I resigned to my refuge. My room. Without dinner. Without hope. Again.
There are more stories like this, some more disturbing, but nonetheless you get the picture.
For decades, I had been repressing and denying so many feelings. Going along with the program. Being the good daughter. Trying to make her love me. Trying to impress her.
DESPITE and
TO SPITE my mother, I made a good life for myself. Graduated college, got a good job, traveled the world. All of which she is only too happy to take credit for. : /
Fast Forward to Thursday, September 11, 2008.
As had been the custom, my mom called me that morning to make sure I picked up her lunch order. She wanted Mexican food. It was only 10:30 AM. It was already a hectic work day. One conference call after the other. I had explained to my mom the day before that Thursday was going to be a busy day for me because I had a lot of work related things to attend to, but that I would bring her lunch and have to leave to go back home and work. She called the order in around 11:00 AM. The order would be ready in 15 minutes. Never mind work. But, before I could go pick up the food, I had to stop at the drug store to pick up some things for her then go across town to pick up the food order and schlep it like a good girl to her hospital room. It's around 11:45 AM when I arrived at her hospital room, I see her hospital food tray sitting in front of her untouched AGAIN. She refused to eat the hospital food. I cleared it away to make room for her Mexican food on her table. Even though, I explained that I couldn't stay because I had a noon meeting, she asked me to sit with her while she eats. I obliged, knowing that I would be in bit of trouble for missing this particular conference call. No, I couldn't conduct the call from the hospital room. Too many interruptions, the TV, my mom talking on the phone, nurses in and out, you get the picture.
As I'm sitting there (she has her back turned to me as she ate), an aide came in to retrieve her hospital food tray. My mom beamed. It was one of her newly adopted daughters that she had befriended while in the hospital. "
Here's my sweetie. Isn't she pretty?", she said to me. She's got such a cute little shape and her hair is so pretty. (My mom never taught I was pretty growing up. I was too fat, too black, too this and too that. She often took pleasure in belittling me and frequently compared me to some of her skinny Latina students.) Noticing yet another untouched tray of food, the aide commented how lucky my mom was that she didn't have to eat the hospital food and that she was lucky to have such a good daughter. I smiled and mentioned that I really should be going because I needed to get back to the house to be on another conference call. The aide said that my mom should let me go get my work done and that she'd come back and hangout with her later. My mom, with her back still turned to me, says "
HMPH! It can wait. She don't have to leave just yet. I ain't done eating. I'm not going to choke down my food so she can leave." Why is work so important? No vacation time left. I work or I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, then I don't have money to pay for all her meals, run around town paying her bills and getting her laundry list of crap. Makes sense to me that she might cut me some slack, right? WRONG! Right about then, a nurse walked into the room and made some comment about the Mexican food. "
My! Aren't you lucky! I love that restaurant. Your daughter brings you food everyday doesn't she? You are so spoiled." My mom replied, "
Naw! I'm not the one who is spoiled. She's spoiled. (meaning me) She had the good life growing up. Had all the best toys. Had one of the first computers ever made. Shoot! She had it good. She's the one who is stuck in her ways. She's spoiled." My eyes began to swell up with tears, but she can't see that because her back is turned to me and she's still eating.
The gig is up! You see, my mother claims to have found religion some years ago. So, for the past few years, it seems she's been playing the role of the good Christian woman. She wasn't quite as toxic as she had been and we had even began feigning a mother/daughter relationship. But, just then, it was as if she had ripped off a disguise. And, she was as she had always been. That woman I hated. I flashed back to when I was a little girl. I felt trapped. I needed a
refuge. Some place to escape. The aide smiled an uneasy smile and left with the tray. The nurse went about her business in the room then left. It was an awkward moment. Alone, I said to my mom, "
Is that what you think? That I had a good life?" She replied, "
Yes! You had a great life. You had the best of everything." I stood and headed towards the door, I said, "
I had a sh!tty childhood. Enjoy your food." and left. Just like that. I flung the door open and started to flee.
In the hallway, it seemed like the entire floor had come to screeching halt. No, we didn't yell. I didn't raise my voice once. But, passersby in the hallway could tell by looking at me that something wasn't right. That I was in distress. I walked as fast as I could to the elevator. There stood an orderly and a patient. I stood for a few seconds and waited for the elevator to arrive, but I knew I was going to lose it at any moment. So, I took the stairs. I bounded down the stairs as fast as I could and hoofed it out of the hospital as fast as my legs would carry me. My head was flooded. I was fleeing. I felt trapped. I had to get away. It was like it always had been. Only difference is now, I see it. I see who she is. I get it and I realize that I don't have to put up with her. Yes, she's sick. She's in the hospital, but what about me. Do I stay and let her
devour me? Do I leave and save myself? Those were the thoughts and questions going through my head as I sped away towards the house where I was staying.
Pulling up in the driveway, I wished that my grandmother would be sitting on the sofa near the front door and see me. Ask me what was wrong.
Upon entering the house, she's not right there. She's cleaning out my mom's room. Clearing out years of crap that had accumulated in there. Preparing it for her return home.
I didn't say anything. I went into the den and sat on the sofa in front of my computer. Where I was supposed to be working. Sobbing quietly. 'shrug. Can't worry about work now. That's already gone to h3ll. I sat there with my head in my hands, crying, thinking, pondering, remembering, weighted down with sorrow. After a few minutes, I lurched from the sofa and stomped down the hallway past my grandmother to fetch my things from my old room. "
Screw it! I'm outta here!", I said.
I began feverishly grabbing my stuff and throwing it into my car. My grandmother tried to intervene and ask what was wrong, but I couldn't articulate anything. I wandered around the house gathering my things, sobbing and ranting.
I remember saying something about "
Why can't she just be nice! and Yeah, I'm the ungrateful one, that's right!" That's all I remember saying. As I said my goodbye and walked out the door, I remember seeing my grandmother perched on the sofa near the front door looking distraught and small and pitiful. In my whole life, my grandmother had never seen me like that. Never seen me break down and cry. Certainly, not sobbing like I was. I hated to leave her like this. I know she needed me, but I wasn't me just then. I needed me!
She broke me. I had had enough. I was finally going to do something I could never do before. I was going to leave. Not be the good daughter. Think about myself for once.
Within 15 minutes I was gone. Back on the highway to MY home. Putting time and distance between me and her. The one who was supposed to be my mom. The one who never loved me and didn't care that she was destroying me little by little each day. I had no choice but to escape.
Thursday, September 11, 2008 was my Independence Day.
Amber was my secret pal and she knit me some kick@ss fingerless gloves (I put out a not so subtle hint to anyone that might have my name that I wanted fingerless gloves one knit night). They are ultra warm and soft alpaca. GOOD JOB AMBER! THANK YOU!
PJ gave me the black sheepy and cool calendar out of the blue the other day. :: sniffle :: THANK YOU PJ! I LOVES THEM!
