Friday, June 20, 2003
MOTHERLOAD, my last post was a bummer... Friday, June 13, 2003
Writing about my mother was worse than living with her. How to say something about that relationship that has some truth, some balance, without having ulterior motives.
I do not love her. To try to tell why is a snake pit of twisted experience and convoluted thoughts.
Feelings of hatred would often cloud my vision, but that's a weakness on my part. Get OVER it!! She is just an old lady now and she tried and she's YOUR MOTHER for Christ sake!!!!
I left for work feeling satisfied with the mornings post. My live-in chief critic usually reads what I write when he gets up. I later ask him what he thought. Silence. A bad sign. He knows me like no other ever knew me. He knows all the people I've written about. He's been the target of my mother's wrath. He points out that I have made certain assumptions that may not at all be true. He questions me on the source of her fear. He says it was my father, her husband that she was afraid of. This is not true I insist. I am agitated and angry that he challenges MY VIEW OF MY MOTHER!!
This exercise has exhausted me. Writing usually leaves me energized. I have no distance from this relationship. Perhaps I never will. But it will plague me until I can get it right.
MOTHERLOAD, Sex and Lies continued...
My mother was a fearful woman. I think what made her most afraid was me. She told me when I was a tot I'd throw tantrums. I'd lay down in the street and kick and scream at the top of my lungs. She would walk away and pretend she didn't know me.
Control was the way my mother dealt with fear. As long as you controlled how things looked - then it didn't matter how things were.
I was a thumb-sucker. This caused my mother great embarrassment. She tried an endless number of "cures" to get me to stop. Even the foul smelling goop she would smear on it would not deter me. She watched me like a hawk at family events to make sure I wasn't sucking the offending member. I'd always try to sit next to my gramp on the sofa. He would sit a little forward and let me slide behind his back to sneak a quick suck. I was forever grateful.
By the age of five I was in kindergarten. We lived about a mile from Grove Street School in Montclair NJ. It seemed like 100 miles to me. There were many obstacles to overcome, not the least of which was the loosely knit gang of teenagers who hung out by the corner store. I'd have to pass by them every morning. My mother walked me to school the first few days. It was a scary new world out there. The main street was heavily trafficked. Those kids on the corner were always smoking and jeering. Just getting near to the spot where I knew they'd be and my heart would palpitate. I needed to hold my moms hand. After the first week my mom felt enough was enough. I knew the way. It was time I walked to school by myself. Monday morning panic. I begged, I pleaded with her to walk me, just one more time, please, please, please, oh please!!!!!!!!! I grabbed her and would not let go. She was kind of laughing but weird laughing. It scared me even more. She pushed and shoved and maneuvered me to the living room, shoved me out the front door, slammed and locked it. I stood on the porch alone. I thought I was going to die. I went around and banged on the windows to get my mother to come. Not a sound from inside. At the same time I knew I had to get to school. It was bad to be late. I turned and started to run. If I ran to school fast enough, nothing could get me. No harm - if I only ran fast enough. It must've been in that moment that I overcame the greatest fear, abandonment. I had been abandoned (more existentially than actually) and survived. Perhaps my mother had been too well loved. No one ever put her to the test, challenged her. She had no resistance. She never learned to overcome her fear.
Writing about my mother was worse than living with her. How to say something about that relationship that has some truth, some balance, without having ulterior motives.
I do not love her. To try to tell why is a snake pit of twisted experience and convoluted thoughts.
Feelings of hatred would often cloud my vision, but that's a weakness on my part. Get OVER it!! She is just an old lady now and she tried and she's YOUR MOTHER for Christ sake!!!!
I left for work feeling satisfied with the mornings post. My live-in chief critic usually reads what I write when he gets up. I later ask him what he thought. Silence. A bad sign. He knows me like no other ever knew me. He knows all the people I've written about. He's been the target of my mother's wrath. He points out that I have made certain assumptions that may not at all be true. He questions me on the source of her fear. He says it was my father, her husband that she was afraid of. This is not true I insist. I am agitated and angry that he challenges MY VIEW OF MY MOTHER!!
This exercise has exhausted me. Writing usually leaves me energized. I have no distance from this relationship. Perhaps I never will. But it will plague me until I can get it right.
MOTHERLOAD, Sex and Lies continued...
My mother was a fearful woman. I think what made her most afraid was me. She told me when I was a tot I'd throw tantrums. I'd lay down in the street and kick and scream at the top of my lungs. She would walk away and pretend she didn't know me.
Control was the way my mother dealt with fear. As long as you controlled how things looked - then it didn't matter how things were.
I was a thumb-sucker. This caused my mother great embarrassment. She tried an endless number of "cures" to get me to stop. Even the foul smelling goop she would smear on it would not deter me. She watched me like a hawk at family events to make sure I wasn't sucking the offending member. I'd always try to sit next to my gramp on the sofa. He would sit a little forward and let me slide behind his back to sneak a quick suck. I was forever grateful.
By the age of five I was in kindergarten. We lived about a mile from Grove Street School in Montclair NJ. It seemed like 100 miles to me. There were many obstacles to overcome, not the least of which was the loosely knit gang of teenagers who hung out by the corner store. I'd have to pass by them every morning. My mother walked me to school the first few days. It was a scary new world out there. The main street was heavily trafficked. Those kids on the corner were always smoking and jeering. Just getting near to the spot where I knew they'd be and my heart would palpitate. I needed to hold my moms hand. After the first week my mom felt enough was enough. I knew the way. It was time I walked to school by myself. Monday morning panic. I begged, I pleaded with her to walk me, just one more time, please, please, please, oh please!!!!!!!!! I grabbed her and would not let go. She was kind of laughing but weird laughing. It scared me even more. She pushed and shoved and maneuvered me to the living room, shoved me out the front door, slammed and locked it. I stood on the porch alone. I thought I was going to die. I went around and banged on the windows to get my mother to come. Not a sound from inside. At the same time I knew I had to get to school. It was bad to be late. I turned and started to run. If I ran to school fast enough, nothing could get me. No harm - if I only ran fast enough. It must've been in that moment that I overcame the greatest fear, abandonment. I had been abandoned (more existentially than actually) and survived. Perhaps my mother had been too well loved. No one ever put her to the test, challenged her. She had no resistance. She never learned to overcome her fear.
