Mothers Day. An UnBeautiful Post

I am (re re re) reading Amanda Palmer’s ‘The Art of Asking’ and have gotten to the part where she calls her mom for advice on a talk she has been scheduled to give. They wind up having an amazing conversation over wine and hours. A lot of it surprising to Amanda who wondered why she didn’t know any of it…mostly because she had never taken her mother seriously. 

Sometimes I get an internal ‘click’ when something important nudges my placid psyche. 
This was more of a Die Hard explosion. 
(AND ON MOTHERS DAY TOO….she blinked in disbelief)
I had what can be generously described as a problematic relationship with my mother. Tens of bazillions of books, articles, songs, movies, operas etc have been produced on the same topic. Scarcely a novelty.
But…I think about it now, once in a while,
(Wince. Another sharp jab of guilt; only once in a while…)
and I never quite understood the basic problem.
We loved each other, I’m pretty sure. She loved me almost too much I think. In an overwhelming scared kind of never let you out of her sight type of love. Which went over not at all to a strong willed girl? woman? pre-woman? Certainly she never ‘got’ me. And I didn’t get her either and was as dismissive as any other teenaged angsty superior didn’t really know shit daughter in this turbulent history.
But in my older, wiser (?) days I think we just really didn’t like each other. She was fearful of everything and taught me to be afraid too. No arguments because they weren’t nice. Lies? Yes. She lied all the time; to my stepfather, to her parents, to other people. It was easier to enmesh yourself in lies than confront. (Man I have been YEARS in shaking that off)
If we hadn’t been related and thrown together by the shackles of blood and responsibility and guilt (heavy on the guilt)  I don’t think we would have had anything to do with each other.
I used to promise myself I would be better, I would overlook the things that grated on me any time we were together. I would smile more, I wouldn’t  let her know how I dreaded the visits…
I played a part, not too well, for her occasionally. Promising myself to do better next time.
Next time.
And then, unexpectedly, she died. Without warning. In her sleep. At 63. 
I could have been kinder.
I should have been kinder.
I don’t know if anything would have ever been different. I lacked a certain connection with her somehow. I saw that more clearly after I had my own children. 
I have come to think that perhaps she simply didn’t like being a mother. 
And I grieve for a relationship I never had, for a woman I never reached out enough to. For a person who taught me things I needed mostly to unlearn.
And for woman trapped into a time that offered her nothing else.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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2 Responses to Mothers Day. An UnBeautiful Post

  1. memadtwo says:

    The first, and hardest, connection.

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