Today is my mother’s birthday. I think she’s 53 – I was born a little over three months before her 18th birthday. Though by now, that may be just another one of my lies, too… Maybe she had me when she was 15, or maybe when she was 21. Or maybe never.
When I was six she told me that babies came from under a mushroom (or maybe a cabbage…). Perhaps that’s where I was found, and that could explain all the mysteries of our relationship, and my relationship with the whole family. Wouldn’t it be nice if it were that easy?
53 (give or take) years of mighty raw power in one tiny little package. She is definitely one of the most mentally and physically impressive people I’ve ever known. At a little over 5 feet, and around a hundred pounds, with piercing blue eyes and a very wicked, winning smile, she looks like a coiled spring, and has a personal presence that has to be witnessed to be believed.
She has a sharp, brilliant mind, an amazing amount of skill and talent, and a survivor ability that I am proud to have inherited. There is a lot of her in me, and with one exception – my ability to truly frighten people with a quiet word or a look* – I am very proud of all of it.
She’s also terrifying to me – the only person I’ve ever been genuinely and consistently afraid of, and she has a streak of weakness that I will probably never be able to understand. She might say, now, that she treated me the way she did so that I wouldn’t have that same streak, but more likely she would say that I don’t know what I’m talking about, as usual.
There is another woman here, a friend, who recently did something that disgusted and disappointed me deeply. I couldn’t understand my tremendous anger over a situation that no longer affects me directly (though it did at one time) but it didn’t take me very long at all to trace that connection back to home. There is something about seeing a strong, intelligent woman fall prey to her own weakness for a man – ESPECIALLY a bad man, that I cannot forgive – especially when they bring other people** down with them in their madness.
My mother and I have not had a real conversation in many years. Not since before dad and Robbie died. There are a lot of reasons for this, all of which are publicly known as my fault. And I’ll take that. I know the truth, and my brother knows the truth and that’s all that matters. That, and that my mom is happy because I’m not rocking the boat. She is a new person, with a new life, and my truths and myself just don’t fit in there. It’s the only way. I understand that, she generally seems to accept it, but the rest of the family doesn’t. Because of this, I periodically (every time I see them) have to go through the “Sam, how can you be so unforgiving? How can you keep doing this?” And I always say “I can’t explain it to you. There’s more to it than you know or want to hear.” And this is the truth. I always ask them “Why? Why would ANYone do this to their own mother if there were no reason for it? There have been a million times over the years when I’ve wanted and needed her – why would I shoot myself in the foot for no reason?” But they don’t hear me. I think two of my favorite aunts have come to understand it pretty clearly, and another of them, my dearest, understands more than she lets on, but she has to be neutral, because she loves us both so much.
It’s so hard. I have only two choices. To continue to appear to be this unforgiving, stubborn liar, or to put myself back under the horrible strain of smiling and pretending and accepting and allowing everyone to believe that I’ve admitted to the lies and suffering the fear and mind-breaking stress that I lived under, in silence, until I was brave enough to walk away.
Of course, the other, obvious option would seem to be just telling the truth. Everyone talking and getting it out and going on, with clear consciences and lighter hearts and a better understanding of each other. Then I could have a mother, and she could have a daughter, and we could make a new life together. But it has been made quite clear to me that this is impossible and will never happen. Although the one being stubborn, bullheaded and lying, she is the one who refuses to discuss or even acknowledge the past.
So, c’est la vie.
The important thing is that she is happy now, and so am I, relatively speaking. The dream is that we could be happy together, but someone very close to both of us said that they believed that this would never happen. So we just have to accept that and move on.

I will never have a chance to say to her, face to face, that I think I understand why things happened the way they did. That I can imagine what it must have been like for a woman like her – like me – a free spirit, a wild heart a great mind, a broken soul to be saddled with three small children by the time she was 21 and a husband that was just another kid, more of a hindrance than a help, and incapable of satisfying her desire for attention and passion. To see her life cut short, changed irreparably because of lack of choices. She could have been or have done anything, but instead she took what looked like the best path, and it turned out to be a very hard one. She, like me, wasn’t cut out to be a wife or a mother – at least not then. I understand her anger, her lashing out, her specific attitude toward me, her misery, and her feelings of entrapment. It is my own greatest fear, too.
I know I’m not her, that I was just a child, that I don’t know what she went through as a child, but I was never offered her insight on those things. Those things, just like my memories, apparently never happened either. But I can imagine. And I can forgive, knowing those things.
But my forgiveness is not required or requested. It only really matters to me. I have to go on and forge a relationship with my mother that is now, ironically enough, all in my head.
I do think of good times – and there were a few. I do tell people good things about her, and I remember her strengths and accomplishments with pride.

I hope and pray that she is happy now, and I mother myself and let my friends do it for me when I can. What else can I do?

It’s all in my head anyway, right?
Right.

Hug your mothers if you can.
-sia


*this is something that would be very hard for just anyone to comprehend without experiencing it. My ex-husband saw it in both of us, and a couple of my friends – one very recently – told me that I did this to them, and I felt so bad because it was so easy to remember how horrible that felt. One look or one sentence, and you are filled with a sickening dread. Ask Stewart, ask Steve or Rob. It’s awful.

**especially their children.