happy fucking mother's day

There is a saying that goes, “Misery loves company.”

Hello, other miserable people.

I hate this day.

I’ve written things about my mother here. I have this theory that if I can transform the ugliest parts of my life into words, into something relatively well written, into story, maybe it will help.

I spent most of my life not believing, not thinking, not suspecting, but knowing that my mother hated me. That she wished I’d never been born. I know this because she screamed these things at me and my siblings almost every day. The good days were few and far between, and those were almost worse. Because every second was spent in tense anticipation for The Moment. The Moment when she snapped. Because the good never lasted.

I had an epiphany the other day. I know I have low self esteem, but it’s always felt deeper than that. And I realized that it is. I don’t just think bad things about myself. I know them. I am them. After all, they are names that she gave me.

Pig.

Stupid.

Fat.

Lazy.

Worthless.

Horrible.

I could write a list that would go on and on and on.

Mothers have an almost frightening amount of power. They shape who you are, for better or for worse. Maybe your mother told you that you were special. Maybe she told you she loved you. Maybe you are lucky. If you're one of those people, I hope you know what you have. I hope you know how lucky, how blessed you are.

But maybe you're like me. And maybe this day brings nothing but pain.

I know I should avoid Facebook today, but I can’t help myself. I scroll through hundreds of new profile pictures, pictures of my friends smiling with their mothers. They write things with the words “love” and “brave” and “strong” and “inspiration.” It hurts, but in a sort of numb and distant way. I stop halfway through and close the tab.

I sit silently until the hurt fades. Until I don’t feel anything. My eyes are dry. There’s no point in wishing. I gave up on the What If’s a long time ago.

I get up and make myself a margarita.

… 

I am twelve years old, and I love Simon and Garfunkel. Other girls my age are listening to Nsync and Britney Spears. But I'm not allowed to have a cd player. All I have are old records, and Simon and Garfunkel are my favorite. I flip through my parents records until I see Garfunkel’s wild blond hair. I gently remove the record from it’s sleeve, biting my tongue as I carefully drop the needle.

I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate. 

“I hate this song.” She says from the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, frowning. I look at her, but I don’t say anything.

“This song is so stupid. They had some good songs, but this one is just dumb.”

She vanishes back into the kitchen, certain that she’s right as she always is. I look back down at Simon and Garfunkel’s smiling faces. I don’t think this song is dumb. I think it’s like me. I think it’s sad.

I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries. 

...

Mother’s Day, 1998.

Dad was trying so hard.

My mother loves gardens. Dad was surprising her with a garden tour. We had to drive an hour and a half in order to reach civilization where they had such things as garden tours.

It was an hour and a half of tense silence.

I don’t remember why she was so angry. But then again, I might not have known. There was a point where why stopped mattering. Why bother with why? Knowing never changed the fact that she was angry. She didn’t want the why fixed. She just wanted to be angry.

My three siblings and I huddled in the back of our ancient suburban, watching her nervously. Dad’s hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel. My mother was pretending to sleep, refusing to speak to him or any of us. I couldn’t decide if the silence was better or worse than the yelling.

The garden was beautiful. My siblings and I ran ahead, grateful to get away from the uneasy tension, the fury radiating from her. She never smiled. She never said thank you. She just marched through the garden as though she was marching to war.

Dinner was harder. Dad took us to a steakhouse with a salad bar, what we considered a fancy establishment. There we were all confined to the same table. There was no hiding between rows of flowers.. Dad tried to fill the angry silence with small talk and jokes. She responded with clipped, short sentences. I sat, staring at my plate, hating her. I hated her. Dad was trying so hard to make her happy, and she was being so horrid, so rude, so cruel.

We drove home. We went to bed, all of us silently thankful it was over. 

...

Sometimes I wonder if my mother has amnesia. Perhaps she was abducted by aliens and they wiped her mind clean. 

But I know the truth. The truth is simply that my mother is crazy.

Today she pretends that none of this happened. She pretends that she has always been the exemplary model of motherhood. She says "I love you" now instead of "I hate you," but it feels like a lie.

"You talk about me like I was a monster." She says, pressing her palm against her breastbone, shocked and hurt. 

How do you deal with an entire childhood of abuse when the abuser refuses to admit that it ever happened?

Somedays I feel like I'm the crazy one. Maybe I imagined the entire thing. 

Then my little sister, my tiny little sister, calls me crying because our mother told her she needs to lose 15 lbs. 15 lbs she doesn't have to lose. 

No. I know the truth.

Happy fucking Mother’s Day.