As I type the title of this post, I ask myself why I feel such love for my mother. Why am I no longer angry about the times she didn’t protect me or didn’t “turn around” to see what he was doing?
Painting by author
And most of all, why, at this point in my life, am I less angry with what Dad did to me, but still absolutely enraged at how he demeaned and abused her? The word “fury” comes to mind.
Watching all through my childhood years when he hit her, yelled at her, and no other adults in that house came to her aid…when the only thing I could do as a child was listen at the wall when he beat her in the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t kill her — it was hell to witness. What more was it to be her?
There was only one time any of us stood up for her, and that was the day I saw her on the floor at his feet. I was in my late twenties; he had been at her downstairs. I heard her fall, and that was the last straw for me. Fearful for her and raging at him, when I saw her on the floor at his feet, I lost it. Despite my fear of him, I yelled that he needed help. And then he nearly choked me.
It was then that I knew I had to leave. I knew she would never leave him, and I would be destroyed if I stayed. But to this day I remember how much I wanted to rip him apart for demeaning the woman who gave me life, and I was glad that for once, finally, I stepped up for her.
The eulogy I wanted to give
When she died, I delivered her eulogy. There was so much I wanted to say, to put in that text. And I did do a good job of honoring her gifts and highlighting her personality. But I left the elephant in the room untouched. It didn’t seem like it was the right time or place to bring up “all those things she had endured at his hands.”
Since then, I regretted that I stopped short of saying all I wanted to. And I always wished I could do it over and give her the eulogy she deserved. So now that I come to the part of this book to talk about Mom, maybe I can do that.
I need to look at who she was. What she had wanted from life. What she got instead, and what it cost her. I need to take my time with these next few posts because to me, they are absolutely crucial to the story. Her life and mine paralleled in some ways, and I need to understand that.
Her “ingredients”
Mothers are primal, especially for their daughters. They loom large, both in the best of relationships with their children, and also in those where they come up short. It would be easy to tap the love I feel for her and focus only on that, but that wouldn’t bring me the clear truth I seek. The whole picture.
I know my mother wasn’t perfect. She could be cold and petty at times, and she failed me in a lot of ways. Yet, I also see why. And because of that, I can hold both my love and my disappointment together in my heart. I am always reminded of the question I posed for myself one time: If I had to step into her shoes, at that time of life, that culture, all the circumstances that were her life, could I have done any better? And even if I could have, I am not sure by how much. I only know it is a humbling question and one a person should not rush to answer.
I am not sure even Mom totally understood the dilemma she was in. I know she lived in deep denial, even as she also lived each day with tenacity. She had to be tenacious. It had to take such a toll just to get out of bed each day and face the reality I think she embraced. I think she truly and fully believed she had no other option but to stay, whether from fear, insecurity, self-loathing, co-dependent love, religion, or an ego-driven shame that wouldn’t admit she chose a poor mate. To me, to face each day like that seems like the most excruciatingly crushing, soul-killing state of despair I can imagine.
And then, when she came to the end of her life, she feared death because she worried that she was going to hell. I don’t believe in hell. If it’s anywhere, it’s right here on earth. And even if there is one, she didn’t deserve it. She already lived in it her whole adult life.
No, to tell something of Mom, to get to any of the truth of her that I seek, requires simmering in the same stew that was her, with all of her complex ingredients, both good and bad. And those are in the folders here on the table before me. Each is full of notes, slips of paper with bits of Mom scribbled all over them.
Photo by author
So I will hold each one, wring our whatever I can of the emotions and insights in each, and come to terms with what they might tell me.
Up Next
Who was Mom?
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and make a visit to my home state for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
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