I had the same conversation with my mother tonight, the conversation we have been having most of my life it feels like, but probably the last 20 years in some version. Before i go any further, i wanted to say that i had no intention of being so personal in this blog, its awkward to read information that is so personal, and awkward to write, but right now i don’t care who knows. I don’t care if people know some things about me that have been really painful, things that have immobilized me, things that i live with everyday. I’m self conscious about it because i was raised, like so many people, to act like everything is okay, even when its not, especially when its not. So if you still want to believe that i’m nice, somewhat normal, a little cranky, likes pink, children and animals, then its probably best to not read my blog.
So about my mom, i feel like i’m betraying her somehow by writing about her here, but i just puked up my dinner after having the conversation that we have had hundreds of times, and felt like i needed to get the rest out by writing. It goes like this- Her calling me with news of recent ailment, this time atrophy in the brain, and i began to laugh, and so did she, in between protests that it wasn’t really funny, and i didn’t really think so either, i just hadn’t heard of it, and i was struck by the irony of it, she has been trying to tune out, die, numb the pain, as long as she has been alive, and now their is a part of her brain that is dead. She spins in the same thoughts, watches shows that upset her or numb her, and mentally beats herself for not leaving my father and not knowing what was going on with her kids while they were being traumatized, and for the way we live now. So she asks me to look up atrophy for clarification, i do, fatal, and sometimes fatal, but at the hospital, they seemed to think it was no big deal. I get aggitated, feeling like she’s not standing up for herself, and i feel like her caretaker, i am. I get angry, she gets angry, we both get sad, i get angry again, and do my ” i don’t buy this, you want to die thing, if you did you would been gone along time ago.” My mother has had 5 versions of a heart attack, partially paralyzed in one leg, missing discs in her back, diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, has had her body mangled by two surgeons, once on her breasts, the first time on her spine 50 years ago when they cut through her myelin sheath. She tried to commit suicide when i was 13, and i found her and dragged her around the room to keep her awake, made her drink mustard and water to puke up the pills, and then called a friend of hers, who worked in the mental health field and took her to the hospital, my siblings were downstairs watching tv. My dad bought her a fur coat after that. My mom was adopted, she loved her dad, hated her mom, and still aches to know her true parentage, even though she looks like the family she was adopted into, and so do i , and so does my brother, none of that will quell her loneliness of not knowing where she comes from. So i do the tough/cheerleady thing, i get easily worn out, then she starts talking about the lottery, it is her escape, if she were to win the money, then everything would be okay, we wouldn’t be poor, she would buy me a house and give me money to start a business, and she would go back to Montreal and get herself a villa in Greece, she has always wanted to go. I am exhausted at this point, but the call needs to end in a more positive way, so we do our best. I tell her i feel queezy, she says its because of her, and i said please don’t give yourself anything more to feel guilty about, she says okay, we wish each other a good sleep and the call ends. I feel like crap, get into my pyjamas and puke, come to the computer and write. Write because its the only thing that is helping.
I have worried about her dying all of my life, i worry that when i go away she will die, whenever i have gone away, when i don’t hear from her, i think she’s dead. I want it to stop, i want to be with her as someone who is alive, not someone who is waiting to die, or as someone who is waiting for her to die. Her deep loneliness, her brutallness with herself, these are part of my legacy, along with body shame, repression, and detatched affection. I want to give her a plug right now, that she hasn’t been so bad, that she’s funny, strong, etc. The truth is, she is passive, and she has fought to stay alive, but as a ghost, like me, watching life. She is funny, because she is blunt, and a bit harsh. She is also like a baby alot of the time, and even gets a baby voice sometimes, she likes it, she doesn’t want to grow up, she says. She would do anything she could for me, but always reminds me that i am her baby, which makes me feel trapped. I know she loves me, and i her, but it will always be tainted by these dynamics and the abuse they grew out of. I don’t know what to say from here, i wanted the things i write to be about the personal, and the communal, the public, culture, all that stuff. I guess this is, its about living in a culture of violence, that on top of taking the abuse, you also have to hide it and then show no signs that it has ever affected you. It’s almost as if we were not human.
