60. Walking away

Many years ago, I was brought up by an angry man.  Easy to offend, I still recall the ringing in my ears and the sting from getting a backhand that sent me clear across the room for ‘insulting’ him. How?  I had made a Father’s Day card and drew a series which started with a baby and ended with old man.  The caption: “Through the years, I will always love you.  Happy Father’s Day!”  The reason for the violence?  I had insulted him with the “old” bit.  Sigh.   A memory that is as unbelievable as it is unforgettable. Luckily for me, many years later, I met and married an incredibly good man who taught me what real love looked and felt like – and that I deserved it. 

Which brings me to another angry man in my life.  Because of our shared history, I often made excuses every time his angry rants arrived in my inbox or showed up on my mobile.  His heavy workload.  His difficult upbringing.  The chip on his shoulder that he had no control over.  Under that guise, I allowed him to treat me unkindly for many years.  Accepting all the blames he piled on me – regardless of how petty or crazy the charges.  It was always my ‘transgressions’ that caused him to get so angry with me.  My fault. Except the load recently became too heavy.  Tired of the mood swings -- vacillating from being incredibly charming and funny one minute to becoming mightily insulted and a raging mass of ill humor the next, I finally said I was “done”.  A slammed door was predictably followed by childish emails and messages.  And yet, if I was to be honest, my initial reaction was relief from the realization that I don’t have to do this silly ‘dance’ anymore.

As I often do when unsure how to proceed, I walked away after writing the above paragraphs.  And I slept on it.  I dreamt vividly.  In my dream, my mother was there.  And I was angry with her.  I woke with a start and a question.  Maybe, without realizing, I too am an angry (wo-) man.  Psychoanalyzing my dream, I obviously still have residual feelings of disappointment from our mother abandoning us and leaving us with the angry man who was our father.

Can it be that I too am like the angry man I grew up with?  Do I also have rage just simmering under the surface, ready to explode at the first sign of a perceived slight but not realize it?  I had previously read somewhere that quite often, you are drawn to or repelled by someone because they possess traits that you also possess.  Am I being a hypocrite? 

And so I have been mulling over this these last few days.  Wanting to be fair.  Yearning to be honest with myself.  Trying to be a good role model for my children.  And this is the conclusion I have reached:  I am a flawed human being who like so many others have had to deal with a childhood filled with less than stellar memories.   I use those memories to drive me to be a better kinder person every day – to make a difference whenever I can. To learn, correct and improve as I go along.  I also realize that having tried for the best part of these last 20 or so years to help this angry man without getting swallowed whole by the toxicity of it all, I have reached the point where I no longer want to be anybody’s punching bag, no matter the shared history or blood connections.  After all, what good is “blood” if it makes you sick to the stomach with anxiety?  As such, with an affirmation to surround myself with kindness, I draw a line in the sand to acknowledge my limits and to move on without prejudice or hate.  One cannot be drawn into a storm if one chooses not to participate and instead just walk away.

*** end ***

18. Mommy dearest..

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Mother’s Day is coming up again and it always puts me in a reflective state of mind.  I think of my mother.   Wonder where she is and what she’s doing.  I wonder if she has regrets about her decisions concerning my two brothers and I.  And then I think, what a shame, to go through all that trouble of having not one, but three children; and then display such indifference.  When curious friends enquire, I always feel embarrassed because I cannot provide them with a coherent reason to her nonchalance.  “But she’s a mother..” is a melancholy refrain I hear again and again.

Truth be told, I used to find it really hard to understand.  In the beginning, I made excuses for her.  It was because her mother was terribly cruel to her – she had told me.  Then, it was because my father had cheated on her and broken her heart.  Life had been so frustratingly unkind to her.  Then, as a young adult, I conjured other reasons for her callousness.  If she got moody if any of her friends congratulated her on her beautiful daughter (ie me), it was my fault.  When she played schizophrenic mind games alternating between the wounded ‘bird’ (who called me at all hours in tears, greedily siphoning reassurances of her worthiness) and the spiteful spoilt child who thought nothing of dealing out crushing blows to my own self-esteem, it was also my fault..somehow.  My two brothers thought me a sucker for punishment because they had figured her out a long time ago.  But I was trapped.  In a vicious cycle where I lunged between trying to ‘save’ her and wondering what the hell I had done to deserve the latest onslaught.  “She has nobody else”, I told myself.  “I just have to learn not to be so sensitive.”  And this went on for years.  Until I fell pregnant with Faith.

I still remember the day clearly.  I was sitting on the bed, on a beautiful sunny day in Bondi, staring at my impossibly large belly, when I experienced a flashback.  In it, my mom was tying my hands to the top bunk of a bed.  She then told me to make sure I was a good girl, turned around, and left with my older and younger brother – to go out for the day.  WHAT?!?  I shook my head in disbelief.  Did that really happen?  Actually, it happened many times but I had forgotten.  And then, another came flooding into my already startled memory.  My younger brother, sleeping next to Mom on her bed.  My older brother, sleeping on 5-ply-stacked mattresses next to it.  And me?  I slept on a carpet so thin, I can still feel the hard floor beneath -- across the room.

I caught my breath.  Shocked.  And then shakily picked up the phone.  I held my breath as I waited for her to answer.  “Uhm, hi Mom?  Its me, Michelle.  I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.  Can you talk now?”  What happened next was like World War Three.  I was searching for answers as to why any mother would single out a child for that sort of hurt.  She was indignant I dared to bring it up after so many years.  I struggled to contain the years of built-up unexpressed hurt that threatened to steamroll all the hard work I had accomplished in convincing myself I was a good (if not “great”!) person who deserved love.  Why did my mother not love me?  What was so fundamentally wrong with me that she consistently banished me from her presence since I was knee-high? 

Did I get any answers or peace of mind in that conversation (or ever)?  No.  But what I did learn (and it took me SO long to learn this!) was this:  even if the reason/s were revealed, it did not necessarily lead to enlightenment or peace of heart.  Sometimes, it just is what it is. 

And so, three beautiful daughters later, I work very hard to make sure they know how loved and worthy they are, but also equip them with tools in life so they can also have the wonderful life I now am blessed with by making nourishing choices (and no, I am not talking about food!) for themselves.

And wherever she is, my mother, I hope she has found peace of mind and heart; and if we ever spoke again, I would tell her I now finally understand the past.  I would say this to her:  “I know you tried your best -- the only way you knew how, with the ‘tools’ you were equipped with to deal with your life.  Its not fine by me, but I understand.”

Of course there are times when I watch my friends and their mothers, wistfully wishing I had that history and relationship with mine.  But that only strengthens my resolve to make sure my daughters will have wonderful childhood memories to look back on when they too are one day living a 40-something life.

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