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essays:mothers_day [2019/05/24 13:19] zashi |
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| I was happily going about my Sunday, one day in May. I was on my way to my very fulfilling martial arts class--something I always wanted to do but was too afraid to pickup while under the thumb of my parents. While driving I got a call from my father. With great annoyance and mild contempt, he reminded me it's Mother's Day. When was I planning on coming by to see my mother? Was I planning on at least getting her a card?! It hadn't even occurred to me it was Mother's Day. | I was happily going about my Sunday, one day in May. I was on my way to my very fulfilling martial arts class--something I always wanted to do but was too afraid to pickup while under the thumb of my parents. While driving I got a call from my father. With great annoyance and mild contempt, he reminded me it's Mother's Day. When was I planning on coming by to see my mother? Was I planning on at least getting her a card?! It hadn't even occurred to me it was Mother's Day. | ||
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| - | I didn't care. I had no genuine emotion to express. Every empty gesture I made out of obligation caused mountains of guilt, because not too deep down I knew I as lying. Every holiday I did what I was supposed to do and said what I was supposed to say just to stave off the guilt and the accusations of ungratefulness and unworthiness. These are some of the few lies I truly regret and feel remorse for telling. | + | I didn't care. I had no genuine emotion to express. Every empty gesture I made out of obligation caused mountains of guilt, because not too deep down I knew I was lying. Every holiday I did what I was supposed to do and said what I was supposed to say just to stave off the guilt and the accusations of ungratefulness and unworthiness. These are some of the few lies I truly regret and feel remorse for telling. |
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| I could feel myself wanting to give in. I could feel my self planning out how I would grovel and do my normal minimum effort good son act. But I couldn't take it any more. It was his tone that was the final straw for me. His indignation that I could shirk such an important duty. That my mother was so entitled to her day of obsequiousness. Fuck that. "No," I told him. "No, I'm not coming by." He was a little surprised. Why not? he asked. I almost laughed mirthlessly, "Because that sounds terrible." Finally some honesty from me. He again asked why, like a toddler comically missing subtext. I fell back to lying and said "I don't know" because I didn't want to talk any more. I didn't understand the depth of the abuse or the far reaching impact at the time. I only knew how terrible being around them made me feel and how moving away from them made just about everything better. I couldn't explain the years of torment, the damage that had been done to me; the absolute nothing I felt for the two people who brought me into the world and raised a broken sham of a person. Who taught me nothing of value, only how capricious and arbitrary life can be. I learned more valuable and healthy life lessons from being a latchkey PBS watcher. | I could feel myself wanting to give in. I could feel my self planning out how I would grovel and do my normal minimum effort good son act. But I couldn't take it any more. It was his tone that was the final straw for me. His indignation that I could shirk such an important duty. That my mother was so entitled to her day of obsequiousness. Fuck that. "No," I told him. "No, I'm not coming by." He was a little surprised. Why not? he asked. I almost laughed mirthlessly, "Because that sounds terrible." Finally some honesty from me. He again asked why, like a toddler comically missing subtext. I fell back to lying and said "I don't know" because I didn't want to talk any more. I didn't understand the depth of the abuse or the far reaching impact at the time. I only knew how terrible being around them made me feel and how moving away from them made just about everything better. I couldn't explain the years of torment, the damage that had been done to me; the absolute nothing I felt for the two people who brought me into the world and raised a broken sham of a person. Who taught me nothing of value, only how capricious and arbitrary life can be. I learned more valuable and healthy life lessons from being a latchkey PBS watcher. | ||
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| I always assumed my father had the same perspective as me in regards to my mother. I realize now that is a foolish assumption, but I suppose that's the fog of war for you. Thinking back, my mother never dished out physical abuse when my father was present. And he did stick up for me a couple times when she was dishing out verbal abuse (to which she whined, "why do you always take his side?!"--yes, why are you always defending the crying five-year-old from from the screaming thirty-something?). But what this says to me, the fact that she hid what she did (she never tried anything in public, either) means she knew it was wrong. If ever there were the possibility of reopening communication, that epiphany eliminated it. | I always assumed my father had the same perspective as me in regards to my mother. I realize now that is a foolish assumption, but I suppose that's the fog of war for you. Thinking back, my mother never dished out physical abuse when my father was present. And he did stick up for me a couple times when she was dishing out verbal abuse (to which she whined, "why do you always take his side?!"--yes, why are you always defending the crying five-year-old from from the screaming thirty-something?). But what this says to me, the fact that she hid what she did (she never tried anything in public, either) means she knew it was wrong. If ever there were the possibility of reopening communication, that epiphany eliminated it. | ||
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| - | My father was a weak, emotional mess. Codependent and cowardly. Terrified of being alone and incapable of taking care of himself. He orbited around his wife and took his share of abuse from her. I blame him for his weakness. For failing to see his relationship as unhealthy. For not knowing he could do better. He was a victim of his own making and I would have more sympathy for him if his weakness didn't cause so much harm to come to myself. Maybe he hadn't so willingly participated in emotional blackmail, I would've visited him that one last time on his deathbed. | + | My father was a weak, emotional mess. Codependent and cowardly. Terrified of being alone and incapable of taking care of himself. He orbited around his wife and took his share of abuse from her. I blame him for his weakness. For failing to see his relationship as unhealthy. For not knowing he could do better. He was a victim of his own making and I would have more sympathy for him if his weakness didn't cause so much harm to come to myself. Maybe if he hadn't so willingly participated in emotional blackmail, I would've visited him that one last time on his deathbed. |
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| Principally, my mother used pain and shame (and threats and violence) to control me. My father relied upon guilt. They were both raised Catholic and shaming and placing guilt came as naturally as breathing to them. Both of them continually played the victim. My mother was unquestionably the biggest 'victim.' Even when it was my mother being unreasonable or had made some mistake, it was my father who ended up apologizing and kowtowing to my now incensed mother, who proceeded to withdraw attention and affection that my father craved. I could always tell when my parents were fighting because my mother moved about the house silently, ignoring my father, silent treatment being her go to response after her rage-phase settled down. | Principally, my mother used pain and shame (and threats and violence) to control me. My father relied upon guilt. They were both raised Catholic and shaming and placing guilt came as naturally as breathing to them. Both of them continually played the victim. My mother was unquestionably the biggest 'victim.' Even when it was my mother being unreasonable or had made some mistake, it was my father who ended up apologizing and kowtowing to my now incensed mother, who proceeded to withdraw attention and affection that my father craved. I could always tell when my parents were fighting because my mother moved about the house silently, ignoring my father, silent treatment being her go to response after her rage-phase settled down. | ||
