We went to mom’s on Wednesday. We took lunch, shepherd’s pie that was still a bit frozen so it took longer to cook than it should have, but oh well. I feel like my mother and I are strangers. I feel no real connection to her. When I see her, I feel no warm memories of good times we spent together.
Instead I see an old woman with a bent and twisted body, who hobbles slowly, pain evident in each step, but still fiercely independent like a toddler. “I do it myself!” She has never “needed” anyone or anything – except when she tells me she just needs someone to (insert task here). And when someone offers exactly that thing, she is unable to receive it. If she does manage to allow the help, there will be years of stories of how it wasn’t done the way she wanted it. Her proof that she is not heard or seen, not valued, not respected.
She shows me her flower pots outside. They look beautiful, the flowers blooming, the colours playing well together. Two pots stand away from this collection. She points at two spots where they could go. I point to clarify. “No! Over there!” she says, frustration evident in her rising voice. I nod. Yes, those spots should work fine, I say.
We go back in the house. Her lips are pursed, tightening as if there was something she isn’t saying. As we are visiting the story comes out. Her neighbour’s housekeeper has opinions on mom’s choices. I hear the pain of her story. I am not good enough, my choices are wrong, I can’t do it right. And then I understand. She knows what she wants. She just doesn’t TRUST her choice because it has been questioned. She is afraid of being ridiculed, rejected, proven wrong, shown up for lack of knowledge/skill/talent. Not good enough.
Before long I say that however she places her pots, they will look good. The frustration/anger is there again and she says what she wanted was for me to say where I thought they would look best – she can move them herself. Oh. It’s not about where to place the flower pots. She wants to know if I will side with her or with the housekeeper. Why does that matter to her, I think? She has the same level of respect (none) for both of us. My story comes up – she doesn’t want me, respect me, hear me, see me.
As we’re leaving my husband and I place the containers where she had shown me earlier. “No”, she says, “that isn’t right.” I move one to another spot. No, also not right but leave it there, she says she will do it herself. And the toddler is back.
While we are inside the house – the hobbit hole, it feels so cramped and tiny, airless and claustrophobic to me – we sit at the table that once felt so large to me. I don’t remember the surfaces being so cluttered. We visit while we wait for the food to heat. We hear about people I barely recognize the names of – it has no meaning for me, but I make appropriate sounds as she talks about strangers. She shows me pictures she has cut out of the newspapers, of babies born to the children of people with names I vaguely recognize. One grandparent’s name brings up a memory of him eating erasers in first grade. He vomited the pink rubber onto the aisle between the desks. Yeah, good memories, mom. Thanks for sharing. Sure, cute baby.
As the food is placed on the table and we begin to eat, she hesitantly mentions my sister’s name. She could call her if we wanted them to come for a visit. I say I already made arrangements to visit with her on the way home. The mood instantly changes. Anger? Fear? No, I think it’s jealousy. I did it this way on purpose – so we had one-on-one time with mom, because otherwise she would not be able to talk over others’ conversations, she would not be the one choosing the topics. But for her, I realize afterwards, there is another story here. People talk about me behind my back, people laugh at me behind my back, people make decisions for me behind my back, I am not seen/heard, I am not included. I begin to second guess – I should have just said “maybe next time”. That might have satisfied her but then I am keeping secrets so that doesn’t work for me.
There are no winners in this visit. Only stories.
This visit is different. I see her stories this time. I do not get swept up in my own stories the way I usually do. I am aware of them, a few times I feel triggered – and I am able to notice and silently name what is happening, and accept that this is happening, and I am OK.
I see the origin of so many of my stories. I learned them at her knee. I am not good enough. I don’t know enough. I will be ridiculed. I am not seen. I am not heard. I don’t have choices – and if I do make a choice, it will be wrong. I am rejected, not included – no one wants me.
I wonder where her stories originated. Maybe her parents – my grandparents – the adults who accepted me, cared about me, loved me (though they never said the words). I felt safe with them, even if I did stay on absolute best behavior, utmost respect, no backtalk, no hesitation to offer help before it was asked for and instant action if asked for help. I wonder what would have happened if I had not been perfect with them? Did they pass their stories on to mom? Or did she discover them on her own while married to a golden boy who turned out to be not so golden?
The day after the visit I weed in the flower beds. A fellow survivor offers me a prompt to help me work through my feelings: Each weed I pull, I assign a name, or a feeling, or a story. I am not seen – the soil gives up the weed easily after all the rain. I am not heard – the deep roots vibrate through my hand, the sensation travels up my arm as I draw the plant carefully back with steady slow pressure to avoid breaking off the roots, until finally it comes free. I toss it behind me and reach for another. I am not good enough – and another tall weed lands on the grass behind me.
I am angry now, the stories I carry hold too much power over me still. They choke out the delicate Johnny-Jump-Ups – the colour and joy that will stretch up so high to try to reach the sun through the taller weeds – and when I pull the weeds out by the roots, the stems are too delicate to stand on their own. They topple over without that support. Who am I without those stories? Will I be too delicate and fragile to stand up on my own? Why are there no tears as I pull these weeds and stories out?
It is silent around me – no, it isn’t. There is the sound of my weeding, insects buzzing, birds calling, the neighbor’s garden tractor, traffic going by, the cat meowing. I hear it all – but still I feel nothing. Empty. There is nothing left for me there. I am a giant in that tiny crowded hobbit hole that felt so big when I was small and helpless.
My mind travels back to her house. Paint is bubbled and peeling in her bathroom. I want to tear those pieces off, scrape away the mess that covers the wall behind it. The peeling, bubbled pieces are huge. Chunks hang off the ceiling, and I want to rip them down, uncover what is beneath, strip away the ragged edges. I feel like I am on a horror movie set. This is the room where I first seriously considered suicide. The bathtub has been replaced by an accessible shower stall but I still remember the heat of the water, the smoothness of the razor blade, the feel of my blood – the same temperature as the water – as it ran over my leg when the blade accidentally slipped. I watched it longingly. If only I could let it all out, let myself die and be free. As I was about to cut deeper I heard my sister outside the door and it snapped me back to cold reality. I would not leave a mess for her to clean up. Not fair to her. Not her problem. She would be blamed. Not her fault. And so I live. Well. Survive. I hate this house. The paint is worn out in this room. I am worn out with trying to please my mother.
I think I understand. She has her stories and I have made her stories my own.
I can choose a different story because I see them. She cannot. She is blind and chooses not to see that she can see. Too late for her. Not my fault. Not my fate.
I AM good enough.
I am loved.
I am seen.
I am heard.
I am smart.
I am talented.
I have choices.
I choose me.
I choose life.
I am free.
As I dictate these words in to my computer I feel my stomach coming to life. It has been silent since I made the decision to make this visit. I have been aware that it is tightened up, and I have been consciously relaxing the tight muscles – and then they tighten again. But I did not feel anything. Now my stomach rolls. I feel sick. I want to vomit the memories of that hobbit hole of horror. I want them gone!
I feel tears coming to my eyes now. I realize that I was simply an observer during this visit. I put up all my defenses, all my walls. Nothing in, nothing out. I am there during the visit. I’m not dissociated. I see what is around me. I hear the words being spoken. I touch the chair, the table, the fork. I taste the food. I eat the pickles she has placed on the table, even though I hate sour pickles. But I eat two token pickles just to make her happy. It doesn’t make her happy. I taste the sourness and rush to replace the awful flavour with the slightly salty, meaty gravy and buttery mashed potatoes. It’s all too real…but with my defenses firmly in place I am able to name what triggers me, to set that aside without going down the rabbit hole of reaction.
And now I process.
What do I feel? Hopelessness. I believe there is no hope for my mother to change, to heal her emotional wounding. She is a twisted, bent, and bitter old woman who has outlived her friends, her parents, her siblings, her husband, and now a child. She asks me if I want a funeral card from her son’s funeral. I say no without thinking about it. She purses her lips and says nothing. Even now she cannot admit that she knew what he did to me when it was happening before her own eyes. She said nothing then. She says nothing now. She will never speak up for me. She will never speak up for herself. It is not my place to speak up for her, and she would be angry if I tried.
What else do I feel? My teeth are clenched. They have been clenched all week. I am not speaking up, shutting down my words in case I let the secrets out. Damn secrets. NOT my secrets. Not my job to protect anyone except myself.
I keep my lips pressed together and blow air into my cheeks, like a squirrel with cheeks full of nuts. Some of the pressure to keep my teeth clenched releases as I transfer that energy into my cheeks. I feel the stretch in the tissue. I release the air. My jaw stays loose.
My ears start to ring. What do I need to hear? I hear the words in my head. I am ok. I am enough. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault that I survived. I was SUPPOSED to survive. I was SUPPOSED to be loved, protected. I didn’t fail, they did. I succeeded. I am proud of myself. I am proud of my ability to survive. I am proud of my ability and willingness to seek out the help I was able to find, and to make the most of whatever help that was available. I borrowed therapists from fiction books. I borrowed feelings from fictional characters. I borrowed and borrowed and borrowed until I was able to access my own healing. I am proud of my ability to heal. I can take care of myself. I am ok. I am perfect as I am. I belong.
Breathing. Feeling the air move in and out of my body. The first time we attempted this visit, I got covid. I haven’t been breathing well ever since. Is it covid? Is it allergies? Is it asthma? Is it stress? Is it the memories that shut down my breathing in the first place? Breathe so softly and lightly that he can’t hear where I am in the dark. Don’t breathe at all as he comes closer to where I am hiding under the bed.
I don’t need air. I need safety. I need someone to get him out of my bed. I need help. I need love. I need protection. Nobody comes. Don’t breathe. But he is dead. I am alive. I can breathe. In. Out. Tiny shallow breaths. Close my eyes. I am safe. I am in my safe place. Nobody will harm me here. I am safe. Breathe in, a little longer this time. Let the air in, little jerky motions of my chest as I allow a little more air, a little more, until my lungs are fully expanded and my belly moves with the air.
The ringing in my ears is loud again. What do I need to hear? I am safe. I am ok. I am alive. It’s ok to be alive.
FFS does this ever end? Will I ever be able to just be alive and breathing without all this f-ing processing?
OK. Again. Processing.
What do I feel? Sadness. I’m sad that my mother cannot be helped. I feel no connection to her, but I feel this sadness as I would for any bent, twisted old body. I am a compassionate woman. That’s all. I feel compassion for her, but it is not my place to try to help her. She wouldn’t accept it anyway. That makes me sad. She cannot receive my love in any form. I made her a purse for Christmas because my sister said mom had told her she hoped I would. She will not use it. She says because it is Christmasy and she did not go to any Christmas events. I think I know why now. She used this as a trick to find out if my sister and I “talk behind her back”. It is proof that we do. I have a vengeful desire to make her a purse for every month of the year.
What do I feel? Anger. Everything my mother does has another purpose. She manipulates the people around her like puppets on strings. She cannot just be truthful. She plays on people’s emotions to get them to do what she wants – makes us vulnerable – and then she attacks. If she can prove us wrong, she becomes right. I went to visit because I felt obligated to be the good daughter, to make the effort to visit because she was pushing me to do so. Then when I am there, she says and does things that used to set me off, so that I was the one with the temper, not her. And I failed her, because I did not react. Because I gave her what she asked for, and did not react when she said I did it wrong. I simply said, I misunderstood her. There is no argument unless two people engage. I did not engage. I have no connection. I have broken the ties. I do not need to go there out of obligation. If she chooses to visit me at my house, she is welcome. I will not go to that house again.
What am I feeling? Relieved. I have no connection. I have no obligation. I am still a good daughter even if I don’t visit her. I am a good daughter because I am good. I am enough. I do not have to do anything to earn the title of “good”. I am already good. I can do what feels right to me for my mother, and that does not have to be in person. I have no expectations anymore.
What am I feeling? Anger. Frustration over being manipulated. Once again, she dangled money over my head. As if the only reason I was there was to get money. That angers me. It demeans me. It denies that I am a compassionate and loving woman who does things because they feel right to do. It minimizes my right to choose my actions. It denies that I might want to actually spend time with her.
She starts off this time saying that she doesn’t want to write cheques because some people don’t cash them. Then she says she used to have my bank information so she could deposit directly to my account. I tell her I haven’t had that account for 20+ years. She says I would not be willing to give her my bank information now. I counter by saying that I have no problem with giving her my account information, and if she chose to steal from me, it wouldn’t matter because there is very little in that account anyway. I have already identified a savings account in the back of my mind, just in case she wants the info today…again I feel the tug of puppet strings. I also feel a tiny bit of satisfaction at the look of surprise on her face as I say the words about her stealing from me.
The manipulation never ends, and money is one of her favourites. Dangle the money in front of me, snatch it away by blaming me for making it “impossible” to send money to me, and when I go for the bait by removing the obstacle, my brother jumps in to say that the investments aren’t doing well now so it’s not a good time to cash in. I shrug. I knew it wasn’t happening anyway.
Good thing that my husband and I did such a good job of saving and investing that we are not dependent on her money. But it would sure be helpful to have it. Is that selfish? I don’t know. What I know is that my brothers have benefited from the farm all their lives. I’m still trying to heal from the damage that living on that farm caused me. I’d like some reparation. I can’t afford the therapy that I know would help me to live a better life. But I will not ask for it.
What am I feeling? My stomach is getting pretty active again. My stomach muscles are relaxing. I think my shutdown/defense mode is letting up. I am tired. My head hurts. It’s a lot to process. I’m glad I am at home and not at a campground. Thank goodness for covid. If we had gone with the original plan, I would be trying to process this in a strange place with my husband right beside me. Instead, I have been at home where I can pull weeds and move around in a safe and familiar place, where he is nearby but not needing me to keep him company – he has his own things to do. I’m able to write in peace and solitude. I’m able to simply be.
My husband has been supportive. He makes sure I am fed. He reminds me to find my joy. Actually he says “happy, happy, happy” as I rant about what has happened. I finally say, “keeping all these emotions inside is what messed me up and being able to get them out now allows me to find my joy again.” And he smiles and nods and waits for me to finish my ranting.
I am ok. I chose to visit my mother at the farm, where I was sexually and emotionally abused from the time I was 5 or 6. Even now that my abuser is dead and I KNEW he would not walk in that door, the farm and the house still hold those memories. The memories are not as charged as they once were – yay me and my healing work – but the memories remain. I hate that place. I am not comfortable there. I will not go back. If I choose to visit my mother again, it will not be at the farm. If she moves to town I will make the effort to visit regularly, as I did when my dad moved to long term care. She is a lonely, bitter, old woman who is living the life she chose for herself. It is not my life – and it is my choice whether to include her in my life.
I do not feel a connection with her, but I will honour the family connection even if I don’t feel it. Because that is the person I choose to be.
