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-------- Original Message --------
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<td>A Mother's Day Essay</td>
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<td>Tue, 6 May 2003 11:49:38 -0800</td>
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<td>"Monique Young" <a class="moz-txt-link-rfc2396E" href="mailto:monique.ybs@verizon.net"><monique.ybs@verizon.net></a></td>
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<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;">Sticks and Stones</span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--></span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;">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). </span></font><font color="black"><span
style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>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. </span></font><font color="black"><span
style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>"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.</span></font><font color="black"><span
style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>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.)</span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>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. </span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>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. </span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><span style=""> </span>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.</span></font><font color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--></span></font><font
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style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--></span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--></span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><font size="2" color="black" face="Courier New"><span
style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;">Batman</span></font><font
color="black"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></font></p>
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style="font-size: 10pt; color: black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--></span></font><font
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