Moms

I wish I had a close relationship with my mother. I don't think about it as often as I used to, but days like today, when my husband and friends are at work and I feel like I was just punched in the ovaries at this morning's IEP meeting and my eyes are puffy from crying, I wish I could find comfort in a motherly figure.

I listened to an interview with Michelle Zauner this morning, the creator and musician behind Japanese Breakfast. I'm actually listening to her music for the first time as I write this. Michelle talked about her mother's love and even made the bold statement that a mother will love her child more than anyone else ever will, that her child is her world. That is beautiful. And it's also something I don't fully understand. Maybe it exists and I am unable to access it.

No parent is perfect, no mom is perfect. Moms are multidimensional people, and every single mom is different. Your children don't have to be your entire world. But there's a universal trope that your mom will always love you, and as much as I want to believe it, I don't know that it's true. Perhaps we all feel that our mothers are unable to love us in the way we need or want them to.

My mother is my greatest heartbreak, and like any jilted beloved, I am lost and angry.

I understand some of the complexities of my mother's childhood and the scars. Alcohol and fundamental religion can be catastrophically damaging.

It is not my job to psychoanalyze others (although I do, in private), but for the sake of my own healing and to understand the framework in which I operate, I've tried to figure out what exactly is going on. Kind of like I know my aunt has Downs Syndrome, so I accommodate her in my interactions; I am gentler and more compassionate.

"Those who cannot remember their past are condemned to repeat it." I seek a cellular remembering, an excavation, a deconstruction of the woman who shares my DNA. Labels, especially those for mental illness or trauma, are often insufficient, but sometimes they're a good starting place. They don't solve the problem or mend the fissure in the relationship, but at least for me a label is helpful because it allows me to justify boundaries and mourn what couldn't be.

Each generation tries to carry the ball down the field, so to speak. My mother married a kind, gentle man who didn't drink, was open-minded, and came home every single night at 5:15 on the dot. I had a home and all of my material needs were met. I had enviable access to higher education and travel. They even found a therapist for me my senior year.

Nothing is black and white, and I certainly have a number of happy childhood memories. More are with my father, but some are with my mother, like when we baked together. But my mother is very, very fragile, like a snowflake that will disappear as soon as you touch it. And you cannot be that type of fragile as a parent.

My mother's unpredictable nature was baffling. She might bake cookies one minute and then give me the silent treatment for hours or days. Not that any child deserves punishment like that, but I was a model citizen growing up. I had to be. I was told, again and again, that my emotional self was way way too needy and sensitive and I would scare away future friends or boyfriends unless I hid that side of myself. My emotions were completely unacceptable growing up. My depression and anxiety and eating disorder enraged her. I could not call home as much as I wanted to in college, because if I cried on the phone, my mother would get very angry with me. Any bump in our relationship was categorized as entirely my fault. As an adult, I made many attempts to find closeness, but the volatility of her temper and cruelty of her words made it extremely difficult, and I'd end up doing things I wasn't proud of, like yelling or crying. Being around her makes me feel ill, and I am afraid to be in her presence alone.

I am at the stage where I am trying to accept that the situation may not be what I wished for but there's not a whole lot I can do about it.

I'm getting off track. I want a mom today who will hold me, in her words or in person, and tell me that everything is going to be ok. I want her to bring me a casserole. I want her to commiserate and laugh with me. I want her to offer to help. I want her to like me. I am an extremely capable, independent woman, so what I need is not tangible (although I wouldn't say no to someone doing my laundry), it's emotional comfort. I receive much of what I need emotionally from my friends and my own family unit, but there's about 10% of me, maybe more, that will always lack. The dog and the ice cream sandwich I'm eating won't fill it. The flowers come close. But the knowledge that I was always and will always be loved by the people who brought me into this world is irreplaceable, and I wish it was mine. I want a safe place to land.