TheBanyanTree: A Mother's Day Essay from Monique

[Sachet]

-------- Original Message --------
Subject: A Mother's Day Essay
Date: Tue, 6 May 2003 11:49:38 -0800
From: "Monique Young" <monique.ybs at verizon.net>




Sticks and Stones

 

My mom and I do not have a close relationship. This is just the way 
things are, though I'm not sure if she understands the why of it. In her 
emails to me she stresses that she is thinking about me, sometimes that 
she is proud of me (because I have survived in spite of her perhaps?), 
how she hopes everything turns out well for me, and sometimes, 
especially after I've just been to my therapist, these emails irritate 
me, annoy me, and cause my blood pressure to rise (I have no evidence of 
the last, just a vague feeling).

      My mom has often railed about the fad of blaming one's parents for 
one's problems. It is all a sham, she says, for failing to take 
responsibility for one's self. The past is irrelevant to the present, in 
her world. She would not recognize that I was abused as a child, and if 
she did, it would be at the hands of my stepmother.

      "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt 
me." I believe I heard that quite often when I was growing up. What they 
don't tell you is that words can hurt forever, that words shaped how I 
thought of myself and how I thought others perceived me. As a child, 
anyone was allowed to say anything at all about me. Not just my 
immediate family, not just my siblings, who are prone to say unpleasant 
things to each other in the normal course of growing up, but all the 
adults my mother hung out with, and they were not kind people.

      My mother's common-law husband did not hesitate to tell me how he 
felt about me - neither did her other husband, who also thought sticking 
his tongue down my throat was appropriate behavior while mother stood in 
the doorway and laughed. I was unattractive, dressed funny, my hairstyle 
was bad; the list is long. I remember sitting in a bar with them and 
being the object of derision over and over again. My younger brother was 
there also, but I was an easier target I think. (Yes, we were obviously 
children and didn't belong in a bar, but that was where these people 
spent most of their time, and my mother thought it was quality time 
because we were together.)

      One weekend my mother and her common-law husband took my brother 
and I to a weekend party in Nevada. For indoor entertainment we had the 
adult jokesters making fun of me, except now there were more of them, 
and less of me. I was fourteen by this time, and I'd become less over 
the years (obviously not physically) thanks to constant belittlement. 
It's called belittlement for a reason; it makes the target smaller with 
each blow.

      I dressed funny. I looked funny. I acted funny. The most memorable 
joke came when our host, a middle-aged drunk, said that it wasn't 
necessary for mom to take me home right away. "Leave her here, and we'll 
send her back when she's pregnant," he bellowed, and the adults in the 
room laughed, my mother among them, and my brother looked embarrassed. I 
looked around, and my mother, when she saw me looking her way, attempted 
a look of motherly concern, but not well enough to hide the fact that 
she was, indeed laughing. She had to; their approval meant more to her 
than how I felt, how I'd come to regard myself, how hard I'd have to 
work to overcome the negative perceptions I was burdened with. If I 
cried, if I let on how hurt I was, if I'd even been able to put into 
words how that comment made me feel worthless and less of a person, I'd 
be told that I needed to learn to take a joke.

      Mom had needs that were more important than mine. While I hope 
she's found what she needed and wish her the best, we'll never be close 
because I could never trust her to protect me at a time I needed 
protection. That's just the way it is now. And while life is too short 
to dwell back there, I still have to work at dispelling the perceptions 
I was given while growing up. Words do hurt.

 

 

 

Batman

 

 

 

 

 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.remsset.com/pipermail/thebanyantree-remsset.com/attachments/20030506/c8c03b5c/attachment.htm>