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essays:mothers_day [2019/05/24 13:26] zashi |
essays:mothers_day [2019/05/28 12:51] 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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| Avoidance is not generally a healthy coping mechanism, but in this instance it served me well. It was absolutely the right move. I needed to get away from my abusers. | Avoidance is not generally a healthy coping mechanism, but in this instance it served me well. It was absolutely the right move. I needed to get away from my abusers. | ||
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| - | When I told my father that I would be moving out, he stepped inside my room, closed the door, and asked in a hushed voice "is your mother that bad?" It was the first time in nineteen awful years that I had seen him acknowledge that she's terrible. I wish I had the strength back then to answer honestly. I was taught from infancy that resistance is not only futile, but will be punished. I instinctively dodged the question. I don't recall the lie I gave, probably something along the lines of I just want to live nearer the full-time job I just accepted. | + | Years prior to that particular Mother's Day, when I told my father that I would be moving out, he stepped inside my room, closed the door, and asked in a hushed voice "is your mother that bad?" It was the first time in nineteen awful years that I had seen him acknowledge that she's terrible. I wish I had the strength back then to answer honestly. I was taught from infancy that resistance is not only futile, but will be punished. I instinctively dodged the question. I don't recall the lie I gave, probably something along the lines of I just want to live nearer the full-time job I just accepted. |
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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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| 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. | ||
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| - | I often found myself assuaging my parents feelings. I did this for my father more than my mother, but my father plied me with guilt to do the same for my mother. Cooing and comforting and expressing my undying loving and appreciation for them--that same old song and dance of affection and acting like a good son. Being forced to commit to taking care of them when they are old. My father once told me if I ever tried to put him in a nursing home, I should instead just buy him a gun so he can shoot himself. | + | I often found myself assuaging my parents feelings. I did this for my father more than my mother, but my father plied me with guilt to do the same for my mother. Cooing and comforting and expressing my undying loving and appreciation for them--that same old song and dance of affection and acting like a good son. Being forced to commit to taking care of them when they are old. My father once told my eight-year-old self if I ever tried to put him in a nursing home, I should instead just buy him a gun so he can shoot himself. |
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| As a very small child, I called my parents Mommy and Daddy. At some point, that didn't feel appropriate. Probably around ten, that's when a lot of this kind of stuff come to bear. But it also didn't seem right to call them Mom and Dad. Too informal. Too intimate. They weren't Mommy and Daddy any more and they weren't Mom and Dad. I was their ward, but they weren't anything to me, so from then on I didn't call them anything. I didn't use their first names either. I just carefully avoided addressing them and used pronouns wherever possible. I used father and mother when referencing them. | As a very small child, I called my parents Mommy and Daddy. At some point, that didn't feel appropriate. Probably around ten, that's when a lot of this kind of stuff come to bear. But it also didn't seem right to call them Mom and Dad. Too informal. Too intimate. They weren't Mommy and Daddy any more and they weren't Mom and Dad. I was their ward, but they weren't anything to me, so from then on I didn't call them anything. I didn't use their first names either. I just carefully avoided addressing them and used pronouns wherever possible. I used father and mother when referencing them. | ||
