Debriefing with my siblings about our home life was never a viable option. Consequently, these childhood tales have been brewing inside my system for as many years as I’ve been alive.
It was basically off-limits to discuss Mom’s actions with either of my brothers. A few reasons make sense. They could not conceive of my reality because they were fighting their own reality. Peter was the revered one, and the concept was so far off his radar, I’d be speaking a foreign language. Even the brother who almost made it to the rinse cycle would poo-poo any attempt at my commiserating.
And there wasn’t much I could earnestly share with my own therapist. Where would I find the time… what with “And how did that make you feel?” peppered in between each monstrous tale. It would take literal years. Although at twenty I did try:
He: “How can I help you?”
Me: “I hate my mother, and I want to know why.”
I’m finding that CPTSD is not something every therapist is qualified to address.
We saw a family therapist as youngsters, although I’m not sure what the circumstances were. Was it prescribed in some way? We each were called in to talk with the therapist—with my mom in the room! I can viscerally recall how that felt, seeing her sitting there to critique my painful offerings. One thing for sure, there was no truth told that day.
Here’s what Len had to say about the matter. He had visited a psychic or card reader early on. She had advised that he, Len, was the reincarnated dad of our mom. Holy shit. What an incredible burden that pseudo-psycho put on him. Len confessed to me that any abuse Mom dealt out to him, he deserved—and he was willing to take his punishment. Man, if that didn’t win him a bright place in heaven, I’m not quite sure what would.
Len took this seriously. Was his ability to forgive so intense that he was sanctified right then and there? Did he forgive or just genuflect at the punishment?
Speaking of that forgiveness concept, Mom didn’t seem to improve from his acquiescence.
Mother’s Day was always difficult. Card choosing was the worst.
My choice seemed to be:
– Thanks for all the hugs, I wouldn’t trade them for anything
– If moms were flowers, I’d pick you
– Out of all the moms in the world, I’m so glad that you’re mine
– Home is where your mom is
Thankfully, Hallmark increased their market by coming up with the blank card.
It’s not that I hated the verses. It was like reading the sports page—it meant nothing to me and conjured up no recollect. As if I had no idea what was being conveyed. Unlike the sports page, though, it did leave me filled with anxiety and obligation.
One year I did give her Hallmark’s finest. I knew it would make her happy, and as an adult, I felt tired of the cage my attitude had built around me. I thought if I just changed my attitude, I’d feel different. Maybe in some instances that might prove to be correct. But not with immense, unprocessed grief.
Len had a great marketing idea of his own. He’d share. We’d laugh. But we were way too fearful and kind to attempt such insubordination. He practiced with some prototypes, pre-printed cards with the real sentiment: “Thanks for fucking me up.” “Your cruelty only made me stronger.” …and so on. He felt this was a huge untapped market. And he was probably right.
Seriously, though, his card idea was for venting—not a viable option. Neither one of us could intentionally hurt her. Somewhere in our depth, we secretly held hope that maternal love could be ours one day.
Len did have a clever way of dealing with Mother’s Day that was brilliant! He didn’t acknowledge the maternal role in any way. He acknowledged her business acumen.
One year, he wrote a full-page letter of appreciation and respect—how smart and successful she was, how he admired her ability to succeed in the competitive workforce. He addressed it to C.R., her business moniker. Even in conversation, he addressed her as C.R. Mom framed it and hung it on the wall.
That did elevate his position in the family ranking. Their relationship looked functional from an outside perspective, but it was symbiotic and weird. In her waning years, when she needed regular assistance, he became her ‘person.’ But after she passed, the vengeance came out full force. This type of pain just can’t be overcome like annoyance at the neighbor’s barking dog. It cuts so deep, there is nothing but carnage and scars left behind.
I’m glad his truthful card idea never materialized. Healing really is the goal here, as odd as that might sound when reading these unfiltered details.
One day, with enough healing – and writing – under my belt, I will read the Hallmarks and have a good cry. I’m looking forward to that day.
