I hate my mother.
Wow, what a strong statement, sometimes I don’t even think I realize that I feel things until they come out somehow. I realized, and have realized a lot lately, that I really do foster a lot of unhappy feelings towards my mother. My amother I should specify here. I love her, but I hate her.
I have tried very hard lately, and I think even succeded in a lot of small ways in changing our relationship, making it better. I feel good about that, because after all, for as much as I hate her sometimes, I do love her, she is my mother.
I havn’t spoken a lot about what it was like for me growing up, mostly because I feel like it must hurt my Meemo to know. The first time I spoke to her, the first time we connected, was a phone call on Sept 12th 2006. The very first question she asked me, right after we both cleared our tears enough to speak, was “did you have a good life?” I choked on the question. I answered “yes” because A. I didn’t have a bad life, and B. How in the world was I going to tell the woman who has wondered about me for 24 years of her life that I didn’t have it good. Yes Meemo, I had a good life.
My life has been much better than a lot of peoples. I had things, stuff material possesions that were better than a lot of my friends. I lived in a house that was the envy of the neighborhood. The one where the farmers and average workers drove by and said, I would like to live in a house like that someday. My mother was involved in my life, my father was involved in my life. We were the perfect family, everyone thought so.
There was just one problem.
I didn’t really fit into that perfect family mode.
From the time I was a young child I was always different. I didn’t want to be held a lot as an infant, I preferred to do my own thing, I was ‘independant and difficult’ as my mother would say to me. I didn’t want her love, I wasn’t the cute cuddly innocent infant that my mother could cuddle with on the couch. Nope, I was a loud screaming infant who didn’t want to sleep at night and learned how to climb out of my crib at nine months old. I grew into a tantrum throwing toddler who didn’t want to listen, and a defiant child.
My mother likes to tell me that I ‘fought’ with her every step of the way. I fought, and fought and fought, I never liked to be held, I never wanted her love. I didn’t want anything she had to offer me.
Needless to say, my amother and I never bonded. I was never the child she wished me to be.
She couldn’t be the parent I needed her to be.
I blamed myself for YEARS for this. After all, the blame was always placed on me, after a while, it just got easier to take it than to fight it. I got tired of fighting. We fought almost every day, about everything. Doesn’t matter where we were, what we were doing, she would find something to scream at me about. Aparantly she thought screaming was the only way to get through to me. She was so wrong. To this day, I completely shut down if I am yelled at. Its a defense mechanism, one I developed a long, long time ago. I can shut off parts of my brain so I don’t have to hear or feel anything. So that I can’t be touched, and can’t be hurt. So that I can’t hear the mean and nasty things my mother is screaming at me.
Everyone needs someone to protect them, I learned to be my own protector.
I was blamed for the havoc and turmoil that I caused in my household. I was blamed for my mothers illness, one which she almost died from. I was blamed in ways for my parents divorce, one of the things my mother told me is that Dad hated all the fighting. He hated coming home to a house in chaos, he wanted it calm, and blamed my mother for not being able to keep it calm. She blamed me. Apparently for not being able to not make her angry, because it wasn’t my fault she chose to scream at me for hours. My father didn’t come home until 5:30, 6…. I got home at 2:30, you would think the screaming matches would have been over by the time he got there, but they never were. I dreaded hearing the garage door opening, letting me know he was home. Because I knew it wouldn’t be long before he joined in, rehashing everything that had been said a million times and a million different ways already.
Why don’t you ever learn? Jessie, why can’t you just learn?
I guess I never even understood why I couldn’t learn, why I always screwed up, why I fought everything. Maybe I was fighting for me, maybe I was just fighting, maybe. I don’t really know.
All I know is the past is painful, I don’t like to think about it. I would much rather pretend it just didn’t exist. It hurts me. I hate that, its over but it still hurts me.
And the worst part of it all?
The worst part is now, when I can look at the woman who in all reality was the one who naturally was supposed to have raised me. The hole in which I actually fit in. The place where I actually belong to. Its just another slap in the face, just another pain I have to accept. Just another thing saying, Jessie, I’m sorry life sucked, here’s one more to add…
That wasn’t really the life you were supposed to have.