Motherless Mother's Day

My wife just said, "Whatcha working on over there?" because I was banging the keys on my keyboard with such swift ferocity it was making the table rattle.

When my mother died on Mother's Day, my therapist said, "Well, at least she didn't add any trauma reminders to your calendar," which remains one of the most true and darkly funny things any mental health professional has ever said to me. Growing up with a mother who hurt and terrified me so much that I spent my entire adult life running and hiding from her means Mother's Day was always going to be a little bit tough and a little bit weird for me. Now there's the added memory of the convoluted way my sister and I found out she died; the wild goose chase we were forced to go on to find her body; the genuine worry we both experienced halfway through the goose chase, thinking she'd faked her own death; and, finally, the confirmation that she was, in fact, dead and that she'd compulsively lied to, manipulated, and taken advantage of so many people in her life that there weren't even enough left to have a proper funeral. 

There's also the mystery of how she actually died, but I've made peace with the fact that I'll never really know that, any more than I could ever know the truth about her when she was alive. I've already heard multiple stories, in the few short years since she passed away, from people who are convinced they could know anything real about my mother. They couldn't and they don't. It's almost like she was programmed to deceive people. (And it was top notch programming; she was very, very good at lying.) 

One of the things my therapist and I disagreed about when my mom died was whether or not it would change my life in any real way. I hadn't had any contact with her in over 15 years. I mean, yeah, once or twice a year she'd reach out to me in the most baffling ways possible. She'd comment on something I wrote saying I was making stuff up, or DM me to say something like, "I never murdered anybody and you don't have a heart!”, or whomever she'd gotten to believe her at the time would email me or call my grandparents and ask them to relay a message, or she’d go berserk very publicly on my Facebook, or who even knows what all. A whole lot of effort to never once even hint at apologizing.

When she died, I thought, "What's different? She was never a mom to me, and then she wasn't in my life, and now she's dead and still not in my life." I'd already done my crying and grieving. My therapist said I shouldn't be surprised when something inside me shifted — and, surprise, she was right! 

The thing that changed after mom died was that I finally felt free to be furious at her. I think maybe, when she was alive, I felt so endlessly guilty for cutting off contact that I worried being mad was one step too mean. I could love her and feel pity for her and wish her the best and hope against hope she'd one day, somehow, accept real help — but there was no need to add my anger on top of that, was there? I was punishing her enough without my outrage, wasn't I? (Do you see what I mean about the deceit? My mom lied so much to so many people about how she never did anything wrong and I was just punishing her that — somewhere, deep inside me — I still believed that's what I was doing! Not keeping myself safe! Not playing defense! No, I was on offense! I was punishing her!) 

Anger is the emotion I’m least comfortable with, in other people and in myself. In other people, it's because I've experienced a lot of anger expressed in unhealthy ways that have caused me a lot of pain. In myself, it's because I do not like the way it feels inside my body. I want to feel love toward people, I want to feel empathy for them, I want to see what's good inside them and celebrate it, and help them see what's good inside them too. When people make me angry, it makes me double-angry because I don't want to be angry! I'll go to almost any length to not be angry! And they're forcing me to do the opposite of what I want to do, which is feel good and nice about them! So then I'm angry — and I'm angry that I'm angry!

It's very healthy. It's so healthy, in fact, that my wife just said, "Whatcha working on over there?" because I was banging the keys on my keyboard with such swift ferocity it was making the table rattle. I want to be done writing this because it’s making me angry just thinking about it, and I don't want the anger to be inside me anymore. I want to go for a trot in the sunshine and say hi to the dogs on their evening walkies and buy some broccolini from the produce stand on the corner for dinner. And then I want to cuddle up with my wife and cats and watch Hacks, and then take a bubble bath and read a sweet queer romance novel and go to sleep feeling safe and beloved. And maybe that's exactly what I'll do but it won't make me feel warm and soft inside because tomorrow is Mother's Day and I am just so, so, so furious at my mother. 

Sometimes, when I'm writing about my mom, I hear Richard Gere's voice in my head, the way he laughs about his daddy issues in Pretty Woman. "I was very angry with my father. It took $10,000 in therapy for me to say that. I do it very well, don’t I? I’ll say it again. Hello, my name is Mr Lewis and I’m very angry with my father.” My mom loved Pretty Woman. I always thought $10,000 sounded like a fortune. Now it's a fraction of the amount of money I've paid in real life to be able to quote my own mother's favorite movie about her. 

On Mother's Day, social media is full of people saying, "I see you," if you're the kind of person who has a hard time, for whatever reason, on this day. Or, "Your feelings are valid." I always think that's so nice. My therapist says I shouldn't go on social media at all on Mother's Day, but I do think she's wrong about that. I love to see people writing about how much they love their moms, and posting pictures of them together through the years. I love, even better, seeing moms post stories and pictures about their kids, about how having them is the best thing that ever happened, and how they'd do anything for them, about how proud they are of who their kids are, and how excited they are about who their kids will become. I love it in the way I love books about dragons and fairies and elves and time travel and flying cars. It soothes my sore heart and siphons off my anger. It fills me with a sense of wonder and childlike awe.

Impossible, inconceivable, completely imaginary — but how neat would it be if that was real for me too?